


the day left me for the night

by thesoundoflaughing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adorable Stiles Stilinski, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Avengers, BAMF Stiles, Bad Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Bad Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Child Neglect, Crossover, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, How Do I Tag This, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Oblivious Stiles Stilinski, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Past Mind Control, Past Torture, Phil Coulson is Stiles Stilinski's Uncle, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Avengers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Phil Coulson, Protective Stiles Stilinski, Protective Tony Stark, Recovery, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Has Nightmares, Stiles Stilinski Has Panic Attacks, Stiles Stilinski Has Scars, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug, and hes gonna get it, getting to the post in post-traumatic, so will everyone else, the worrying amounts of adults shoving children against a wall in teenwolf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23444269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesoundoflaughing/pseuds/thesoundoflaughing
Summary: Stiles likes to think that the Nogitsune changed him, that he was the reason for the absolute shitty fucking turn his life has taken.Stileslikesto think that the Nogitsune broke something in him,madehim into the mess of wound up nerves and the jittery mess he is.It is a beautiful lie.A perfect imperfection.‘Here’, he says, will point to the scars on his knees where his father made him kneel in the shards of his alcohol bottle when he was nine, ‘the Nogitsune did it’.----The fox whispered to him in the quiet screaming of his mind.He had also chuckled, a sound like blood being sloshed around in his throat and saws bleeding his voice raw,spokenin a honey-sweet voice, “You were the most delicious meal of all.”, and thenlaughed.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Stiles Stilinski, Past Malia Tate/Stiles Stilinski, Phil Coulson & Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski & Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Avengers Team, Stiles Stilinski & Jackson Whittemore, Stiles Stilinski & Original Female Character(s), Stiles Stilinski & The Pack
Comments: 52
Kudos: 426





	1. of leaving and writing notes

**Author's Note:**

> hey! i hope you enjoy whatever happened here, and like, i dunno maybe tell me what you thought about it but also maybe not if its something kind of mean - but also, maybe yes to that too as long as you add a cute, nice smiley after insulting me so i feel less bad.
> 
> this is supposed to be a teen wolf x avengers crossover because i couldnt get the idea of how Bucky and Stiles would bond out of my head and i want them both happy, but in a suffering kind of way- as in, only Stiles suffering (for now:)).
> 
> i dont know about pairings yet, but for now Stiles is going to concentrate on recovering and being happy! and it is going to be a slow-burn one, if at all, so if you all have any thoughts feel free to share!
> 
> updates are going to be irregular for a while until i find a rhythm
> 
> trigger warnings explicitly for this chapter are (always) going to be at the notes at the end!
> 
> thanks for reading and please for the love of good, drink mango juice because that shit sucks your dick, in the best way possible  
> also feel free to give me tips for my summary because i suck so much at them
> 
> timeline difference: erica and boyd survived, came back and derik stayed alpha + started co-leading the pack with scott

Stiles likes to think that the Nogitsune changed him, that he was the reason for the absolute shitty fucking turn his life has taken.

Stiles _likes_ to think that the Nogitsune broke something in him, _made_ him into the mess of wound up nerves and jittery mess he is.

It is a beautiful lie.

A perfect imperfection.

‘Here’, he says, will point to the scars on his knees where his father made him kneel in the shards of his alcohol bottle when he was nine, ‘the Nogitsune did it’.

-

The fox spirit whispered to him in the quiet screaming of his mind.

He had also chuckled, a sound like blood being sloshed around in his throat and saws bleeding his voice raw, _spoken_ in a honey-sweet voice, “You were the most delicious meal of all.”, and then _laughed_.

* * *

Stiles wasn’t the only one to get into the ice bath that fateful day, to invite darkness in his heart. But he had been the only one to walk out of it with a fox on his heels.

* * *

Stiles arrives for the pack meeting the way he had for the last ones since the Nogitsune – eyes gaunt and body exhausted, carefully stapled and arranged by color research papers in his hand.

Derek opens the door for him the way he had since, well, always - like the very act of opening the door for him is an offense that Stiles has yet to atone for – an absentminded kind of unwillingness on his face.

The walk to the living room is as awkward as always, Derek deliberately rushing so he doesn’t have to fall in step with him – and god beware, talk to him.

The pack members are all already seated around the low-set table in the living room of the loft. Erica is sitting on Boyd’s lap, craning her head back against his shoulder and both surveying the room with a predatory gaze that immediately zeroes on in him entering the room. Malia greets him with a nod before turning away to continue talking with Boyd. Lydia seems occupied with whispering something to Jackson who grins widely in response – the mocking kind. And obviously and not surprising Scott is occupied with making googly eyes at Kira who grins back at him blushing, while Liam is bowing over some video playing on the phone with Isaac. Cora watches both in fond exasperation, her legs splayed over both boy’s laps.

There is one terrifying moment of weightlessness in which Stiles stands and thinks _Peter would have made some creepy greeting comments now,_ but the moment passes, and he stumbles over to the corner of the sofa occupied by Liam, Isaac and Cora who furrow their brows at him, not quite in concern but curiosity.

He murmurs out a “tough night”, knowing that it will effectively shut down any further questions and plops down, trying to not take stock to the way all three of the couch’s occupants turn their backs to him.

His heart gives an odd twinge when the pack meeting commences with nobody speaking a word to him and his research to a possible succubus threat being declared invalid halfway through.

* * *

Stiles arrives at Derek’s loft, eyes gaunt and body exhausted – his carefully stapled together and arranged-by-color research paper in his hand. Derek takes the paper with an absentminded face.

He murmurs a quiet “have to go” and turns around to leave immediately, not even needing to lie.

* * *

He notices feet often as child.

It is a weird thing to realize, maybe, but Stiles had been nothing more than odd since the day he had first opened his mouth, so he thinks it could have been worse.

Spends a lot of time looking at the ground as various adults berate or scold him, learns to tune hurtful words out, and as always, his mind wanders – and his gaze with it, until he is staring at his feet, and then at the adult’s feet. Feels dissatisfied with the conclusion this draws up, furrow his brows because his childish mind is fascinated with the symmetry of things at that time, and why are his teacher’s feet pointing away from him?

He notices that the teacher often has his feet in the direction of the other kid standing beside him when he is being scolded by them, that sometimes his father has to hurry, and his feet start pointing to the door, that sometimes looking at feet means seeing when the person starts to shuffle, frustrated by his incessant rambling.

He starts looking at the other parts of people’s bodies then and learns to do so unnoticed.

First and foremost he realizes – that his friends shoulders tense when they tells him it’s okay to continue on rambling - that his father’s hands twitch at the side when he does the same - that his mother’s arms tighten for a moment as if she is bracing to hug him in consolation for her impatience and draws conclusion after conclusion before arriving at the final one; that he has to hold back for them sometimes.

And that’s fine, doesn’t bother Stiles as much as he thinks it would, because all those little lies are told in good spirit, for his own sake as much as it is for theirs, but the first time Scott interrupts him with a laugh before asking something after a downright vicious rambling session of his - and Stiles doesn’t need to look at his body to know that he is genuine in his interest - it’s like something lifted off his chest.

* * *

Pity he thinks, would have been much more merciful, much swifter in its execution. Cruel enough to be gentle.

* * *

The realization comes excruciatingly slow, and exceedingly swift at the same time, like the mercy of being bound and secured as the executioner’s axe falls.

His father had taken him on a drive drunk once. It hadn’t been pleasant to start with, the adult snarling at him while complaining about the hospital bills for Stiles’ probably broken arm. He doesn’t quite recall details, only the one heart-stopping moment when his father had started to wean into the other lane to overtake the “motherfucking slow” car in front of them and he could only watch the car on the other lane coming towards them.

Everything had been simultaneously slow and fast at the same time, like the whole situation was stuck in a thick sludge and he had only been able to watch on like an distant observer as his father yanked the car to the side - as they taken a stop at the side of the traffic and he had only then remembered that he maybe should have done something, shout out in warning or fear maybe or try to brace himself in the car.

Stiles researches. It’s a thing.

He knows that there is nothing like eternal mates, no knotting (and had that been a disappointment to realize after a conversation with Scott) and that the urge to mark the territory isn’t exhibited through urinal tendencies but rather the spreading of pack signals. He is aware that most things for a werewolf are so instinctual that Derek, who was born one isn’t fully conscious about his actions that are so inherent to his nature and the way he was brought up.

He is aware that pack dynamics exist, form how the members interact.

The concept of omegas as lone wolves instead of the stabilizing members of a pack is a foreign conclusion to him and he knows that there is more to it.

It doesn’t take long to figure out after a session of carefully needling Deaton – establishing a disruption in his routine by randomly visiting and then catching him further off-guard with direct questions about unrelated news – slipping in personal information about himself to show an image of open exchange. He is well-versed in the art of interrogation due to his father and two hours later he knows that omegas exist as _in_ -pack dynamic for werewolves too.

When Scott meets him at the pack meetings – because he stopped answering his calls in favor of Kira – he playfully shoves him a little too hard to not leave bruises.

Erica often picks him up and delights in scaring him.

Isaac often barrels into him in school, leaving him wheezing on the ground.

Jackson delights in inflicting pain on him in various forms and shapes in Lacrosse matches, hell, wherever he can get him alone.

Even Boyd and Liam can’t help being a little rough with him sometimes.

Kira is soft and patient with him, but there is a clear line drawn between them and she more than often ignores him (he isn’t sure whether on purpose or not) in favor of other pack members.

Lydia – well, she’s Lydia. In a way nothing has changed, still superior to him, cold in her behavior and amused by his general sense of existence, while Cora seems to delight in limiting her interactions between them to snipes and comments off the side.

Malia – is staring at him furiously from some corner, in the silent seething way she had chosen to adapt after he had broken up with her.

-

Derek and Scott are still learning to co-lead the pack – and struggling to do so. Stiles thinks that why his presence is often seen as talking punch bag, frustrations high and tension perpetually in the air.

His jokes are taken with amusement – or lately more so – or with aggression. The first one ending in a lightened atmosphere and the second one shoved against walls or otherwise painfully reminded of his annoying personality.

There are often sharp barbs against him, insults about his weakness or humanity that never truly leave the basic ground of interaction with the pack. 

Stiles researches. He doesn’t always like what he finds though.

He is part of the pack.

* * *

Laughing comes easy to him. It is a lot like breathing to him.

Stiles theorizes what happens – analyses and breaks down, like he always does.

It is a coping mechanism, he also knows, something to anchor him because he has troubles confronting his own feelings directly. Nonetheless - the conclusions still come up, undeterred by his own unwillingness or maybe even spurned on by them.

He has nightmares, almost every night. His screams are loud, and his father’s room is right beside him. They have no real rhyme or reason, sometimes appearing at three in the night and sometimes twenty minutes after he first slips into sleep.

Sleep deprivation causes inhibition to lower. The part of the brain that normally processes through memory while sleeping can’t do their work critical to a person’s health and decision making becomes harder and harder.

The brain’s reward and emotion-processing center and the prefrontal cortex – who integrates brain content and is responsible for emotional evaluation – have functioning connections who are altered through the lack of sleep. Heightened emotional states and irritation that is uncharacteristic for the subject appears as symptom.

Sleep deprivation has been shown to not only exacerbate existing mental health problems but help in creating them. Often people with chronic insomnia that has started to massively affect their life start self-medicating, turning to drugs and alcohol where society hasn’t been able to help them.

His father works in a high-stress environment and has no conceivable social support system – the added effect of financial problems and unpaid bills contribute to a high-strung individual who is teetering on the edge of his endurance as he continues to wake up to his son’s nightmares. His sleep cycle is irregular at best – if existing at worst, and the house that should be a place of relaxation is full of tension and a traumatized child, who needs therapy that can’t be afforded and stability and love that ~~aren’t~~ can’t be given.

The loss of control that permeates this situation is a constant, the inability to change the financial situation besides pulling more shifts, the child that he can’t suddenly put back whole again, the amount of sleep that varies each night, the _uncontrollable_ nature of it – his father must have felt powerless, a man used to getting respect and subordinance from others due to his status in work, suddenly confronted with his own status in life.

Alcohol has certain effects on humans too.

* * *

The Nogitsune left Stiles memories. Not the ones from his possession, or the one of the white, glazed room where his mind would rage a war – no, _memories._

Stiles dreams.

Dreams of fire and death. Of the sickly-sweet smell of his burning flesh. The smoldering heat on what is left of it. Pain, _pain_ endless and consuming, a world that only exists in flashes of red-searing flashes of white and hot –

He screams for his own death, curses in a language long forgotten to dead gods and –

Hands are on his body and they are _cold_ and the pain ebbs away like water, soothes akin to it where he is touched and –

And it begins again. ~~again~~. **~~again~~**. _~~again.~~_

-

There is a burden that follows him after each dream – one that he feels relieved of each time he selfishly indulges in the comfort of his father’s hands, each time his eyes open to meet equally brown ones furrowed in concern and heartbreak.

This time he meets chipped wood instead of soft caramel, and the furrow between his parent’s brows doesn’t seem to be one of concern.

Stiles learned the different stages of a person’s drunkenness rather fast, to plan retreat or start comforting, to differentiate between a drunken man’s sobbing rambles and a preposition to violence – his fist.

The breathing hitting his face is even and the eyes slightly unfocused, but his father’s body is steady and there is intent in the way he moves.

He wishes he hadn’t started thinking, analyzing, not even stopped to consider.

Somehow coherent thought – in control of bodily functions and only slightly heightened aggression then. It is the same state his father used to go to work with. The same state he could use to smile at victims reassuringly, the same state he used to think his way through a case and _solve_ it.

The fist coming his way still hits him, uncaring of his conclusions, of _cold_ facts that don’t soothe the burn on his face like the hands in his dreams did.

His father’s face is bizarre, foreign and familiar at the same time, like the pain coursing through him right now and then a rough hand sizes his ear and _pulls_ , yanking his head to the side with the rough movement.

“Your mother would be disappointed in you, acting like this.”

“Screaming like a bitch, you think you have any right to after all those people you killed?”

“Acting all scared and traumatized, you know how many of my deputies I lost? How many doctors and nurses were lost, how many more will die because t _hey_ died?”

“And you _scream?!_ LIKE YOU HAVE **_ANY_** RIGHT TO WHEN THEY CAN’T!”

A harsh tug at his ear and for a moment Stiles isn’t sure if he is imagining the sound of tearing.

And then his body is thrown into the ground, shoes connecting with his sides and a hand grabs his hair, pulls him up to meet strangely glinting ones. “Don’t you dare wake me again.”

It is hard to count his fingers when his vision is swimming with tears and his hand is trembling but somehow, he manages.

He counts ten.

Stiles feels…less.

Breathing becomes hard.

* * *

He slips into his old routine like a well-worn shoe and discards empty bottles every morning with practiced ease, starts hoarding food in his room, buys groceries with the card he stole from his father. The bills are still paid by him, the house cleaned every day after school from his hand, the food cooking on the stove carefully arranged by his recipes. In a way everything and nothing changed.

A few weeks later he finds a job at a local restaurant and starts to budget his winter clothing, fakes signatures where is needed.

His father is avoiding him, leaving notes with money hefted on them for him by the fridge.

Not enough by far for the bills.

* * *

Some days it gets too much. It gets quiet in a way that Stiles has started to expect since the Nogitsune twisted in his mind, and in the echo of his mind thoughts s _cream_.

There is nothing to hold him up, nothing that grounds him and –

He is kneeling, the rough texture of the gravel under him digging in his knee caps and he would have relished in the sensation of pain other times, embracing it as the only form of atonement he could even hope to get, but he feels nothing as he stares at the grave of the man he -

So, as his gaze meets the one of the woman opposite of him, sees warm brown eyes that had once been loved by the dead man laying under the ground in front of him, the invisible weight hunching her shoulders, his own numbness seems _amusing_ in contrast to the guilt _crashing_ into his chest.

And as the silence in his mind takes over again, he moves his fixed stare to the sound of steps beside him and his gaze locks with a small, middle-aged woman sadly smiling down at him, grief so stark in her eyes that he can feel the emotion crawling on his skin and –

He _drowns._

It has been almost a year, and it has been one day since he last searched up the information, checked everything.

He knows every name, every relative affected, every loved one to a dead person. It could have been carved into his bone for all he knows and maybe it was.

Maddison Abery. Married with Thomas Abery for twelve years, two children, one boy and one girl each in middle school. Widow with 42, his brain supplies. She had been in a financial bind due to the funeral costs and he still vividly remembers money sent back to a newly opened bank account.

Murderer, the sadness on her face says. You killed the father of my children, the exhausted grief in her eyes screams. _Murderer, murderer, murderer._

“- hey, he -”

Can she see it?

There is a hand on his shoulder, and he can’t help the full-body recoil as he throws himself away from the offending appendage.

“- fine?”

It’s the woman, kneeling a few meters away from him with a concerned expression on her face.

“Hey, son, everything okay over here?”

It is the time in which day and night blur, and he watches the sun set behind her. She is crouched in front of him with her hand extended and his heart pounds as he takes the offered hand.

“Just got lost in my thoughts, it happens sometimes.”, he offers as answer with one of his trademark Stiles grins, hoping the weakened version will be enough to not be officially labeled as weird graveyard guy. He stands, patting the dirt from his shorts, when a shocked gasp causes him to look up to the woman.

“Oh dear, you are injured – “, she pulls him to the nearest bench and seconds later they are seated on the bench, “- here, I’m sure I have at least some tissues.”

She rummages through her handbag, all traces of the broken woman disappearing for a moment and Stiles can’t help the painful clench of his heart as he is reminded of his own mother.

A tissue is pulled out few moments later with a triumphant sound and she brings them into Stiles hand. As he looks down on his knees, for the first time realizing the steady flow of blood where something cut into his skin, his hands are trembling.

The deputies in his father’s office that he had grown up with - who had given him fond looks when he had delivered one of his “healthy lunchboxes” to his father - had been undeniably real, a person he had known since he was a little child. Their families had always only existed in conversations and polite questions though.

He had attended the funerals and watched family, friends and relatives from afar as his father offered comfort to them, but there had always been a wall erected by Stiles between them.

 _‘She is real’_ settles into his stomach with a sickening lurch.

In front of him is a grieving woman worrying about a weird stranger falling - most probably on the way to her husband’s grave. All thoughts about knowing her from the files and pictures he pulled up cease to exist, fades against the warm skin on his, as the tissue is given to him. Suddenly it seems too real, too _much._

He thinks of the gaping emptiness where his memories of his mother used to rest, of blurry visions of her smile and of two teenaged children who will slowly start to feel the same. He feels hollow, wrung out, and an exhale of air leaves him in one punched out motion. If he had been stronger, maybe, would there have been one less person to grieve?

His hand tremble where he presses the tissue to the wound. He isn’t sure if it’s the lack of food or – scratch that, he’s fucking panicking. He is fucking pissing his pants and the only reason he isn’t sitting in a poodle of it right now is the general non-existence of ingested liquids by him in the last two days. He is going to scream, and he is a murderer but also not really, but also who cares, really? He certainly not, and why is he suddenly feeling out of breath, life sucks – warm hands clasp his shoulders and a voice is saying something, calming, somehow? Then, “…know that kangaroos have three vaginas?”

_What?_

“What?”

“Kangaroos have three vaginas. All marsupials do actually, you know, a type of mammal that raises their young ones in pouches. It’s kind of ironic, really, because there are three of them. Koalas, Kangaroos and Tasmanian devils. _Three_ animals having _three_ vaginas. I’m not sure if there are more marsupials but I didn’t want to look up more in case I do find a fourth or fifth or tenth marsupial and the whole cool three possesses three just vanishes, but you better pretend there are only three.”

“What is happening right now?”

The woman laughs, eyes crinkling and picks up the bloodied tissue from – the ground?

“Nothing actually, because you stopped hyperventilating.”

The incredulous laugh that escapes Stiles is completely genuine and a grin spreads on his face.

“My husband used to get those sometimes, had a few bad work experiences, and I just felt so helpless and I kind of don’t get the hang of comforting, so I just downloaded the next random biology book and started to recite it whenever it happened.”

Stiles forces the grin on his face to stay as he takes in her sadly reminiscing eyes.

Her hand reaches out to his back and he stays stock-still, trying not to flinch away again as a hand starts comfortingly patting his back. The hand on his back seems to burn through his clothes and how long has it been since someone touched him anyways?

“Everything alright, son?”

The touch is not as bad as he thought, unfamiliar but warm and full of sincere concern for the weird teenager – who is now crying. For a moment he is confused, almost appalled by his own tears, before he catches himself.

The comforting hand is rubbing circles now, and in any other situation it would have been creepy and weird - how long has it been since someone has touched him other than to hurt him? - sitting in a cemetery crying with a stranger yet somehow it only feels right.

Said Stranger – or is she one if he knows she got a promotion in her work two months ago and loves to visit the bowling alley with her children? – looks at him with understanding eyes and there is something in her voice as she speaks, he can’t quite name it.

“I know we don’t know each other, but you could talk. Sometimes it helps to get a new perspective on things.”

_And Stiles is so, so tired._

He said it often in his life, in different ways and forms, joked about it and treated it like something to be brushed off. It feels different this time. Like admitting it to this stranger in all its sincerity and truth will make it real.

He feels his mouth opening to talk to the wife to the man he murdered, feels air being sucked into his lungs and his vocal cords almost straining. “I’m – “, and his voice breaks, like someone punched him in the throat mid-sentence and wouldn’t he know?

“I’m –“

He visited Deaton yesterday, endured the sympathetic gaze as he asked after a way to break pack bonds.

There is a slip of paper in his pocket.

He is so –

“ – scared.”

“Of what?”

There is no judgement in her voice, only curiosity and patient concern. It somehow calms the raging storm in his chest, and he turns around to her, aware of his hand clutching at the paper in his pocket now while trembling.

Of what leaving will mean for him? Realizing they won’t care? Confronting his father? He doesn’t know.

“Hey, kid, I know it’s hard to say, but if someone is hurting you…”

“What, no!”

Stiles is on his feet instantly, vehemently shaking his head.

She comes to her feet too, gently taking his hand and leading him to sit down again.

It’s silent, and he knows she is waiting for him to continue but he can’t.

“My husband died last year.”

“He used to be a soldier, didn’t talk a lot about it, but I knew that it never truly left him.”

“He always used to say his best decision was moving away and starting from the beginning after his deployment ended. How it felt like running away at that time, but he would never regret it because he met me.”

Stiles – breathes.

“I don’t think there is anything wrong with running away. People act like its cowardly or irresponsible to do, and that may be the case most times, but running away has always been about being safe. Sometimes it’s the best one can do.”

– exhales.

He feels like crying again, suddenly feels all his sixteen years and less and yet steadier, stronger in a decision he hadn’t even realized as one until now.

His hands move without him even registering, gripping the hands of the woman in front of him, squeezing shortly, maybe painfully so, before letting go and hopes his eyes show even a fraction of the swirling emotions of gratitude and relief he feels.

* * *

Stiles isn’t smart in the way one is in class.

He is smart when his best friend and brother Scott is bullied - and then he trips and flails and talks until jibes – and honestly doesn’t have to try hard to - and laughter follows the _idiot_ Stiles and nobody has energy to spare for the second equation of the duo.

His mother dies slowly, and he is eight when she whispers her last words to him.

His mother dies and he thinks a part of him might have died with her too, but he _knows_ that a part of his father died with her.

His father dies slowly and does so with a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.

John Stilinski stops drinking when he is twelve and neither of them talk about it again. When Stiles stops touching his father for a few months and sometimes flinches away, he does so quietly and secretly, and smiles and laughs at his father who _needs_ him, who his mother told him to take care of in a small, broken voice full of desperation. He would have done so regardless. Sometimes he wonders if his father remembers.

_Stiles is afraid._

He has always been afraid. He doesn’t think anybody really isn’t.

After that, Stiles thinks, he is doing okay. His thoughts still flutter like a hummingbird and his heart feels tight sometimes, too big and small simultaneously for his chest, but he has dad and Scott and he doesn’t want more.

He is still afraid.

When ‘Scott and Stiles’ turns into ‘Scott and Derek’ and him he isn’t really surprised. Scott and him and Derek turn into Scott and him and Derek and Isaac and then Erica and Boyd and Lydia and he isn’t surprised. 

When Gerard beats him in the basement, and he spends hours laying sluggishly on the ground until he picks himself up and helps save Jackson – and well, even the werewolves with their heightened senses don’t notice – he is fine. His father hugs him, and while a part of him wonders since when getting beaten up was something to be ignored as “I’m glad you are fine.”, he understands that his father means it could have been worse and quietly goes to his room, dressing wounds and making sure nothing is infected.

He is glad when Scott sends him a text saying Eric and Boyd are back. He forgets the specifics of his answer the moment he sends the message. He thinks of a safe pack and a happy father and he is fine.

Sometime along he stopped wondering when he stopped getting those messages.

Stiles is always afraid. The fear never left him, curled into the very marrow of his bones.

But it never kept him from being who he is, from trying to mend the broken relationships around him, from forgiving without being ever asked to. He had stopped, let each fear burrow in his body like a scared child trying to find solace but never, _never_ in his heart.

And - he isn’t sure how long he is going to hold on to this solace anymore, is terrified of finding himself nothing more than a hollowed out husk, of succumbing to the mind-numbing emptiness the Nogitsune promised him and which he _rejected_ , of looking into the mirror and seeing a walking corpse and how long until he is tired of that too?

* * *

He doesn’t register he is on the way home until he is standing in front of his door. It is about ten in the evening and he knows that his father isn’t going to be in the house, but he reflexively hesitates before entering with a determined motion.

Resigning from his job had gone better than he thought, no questions asked because it had been just _that_ kind of establishment and his manager who had been paying him under the table due to his age and work hour restrictions anyways, had slipped him an extra hundred-dollar bill with a sympathetic and understanding gaze in his eyes.

When he comes into his room it takes only a while for him to push the books laying on the ground aside, find some vials sorted on his desk and seat himself in a kneeling position on the ground.

The pack bond leading to him is frayed, fragile.

It breaks with a slight nudge and he distantly wonders if the spell was even necessary.

The pain that races through him – shoots through his spine with a sharp motion and seizes him in a short tremble – is easily ignored.

* * *

It takes longer to write the note. Way longer.

He has tens of papers crumbled up beside him, starts again and again and _again_ , until the words start to blur together, and his hands grip the pen so tightly it almost seems to snap in his hand - but in the end he does write.

A number, not his own, quiet and unassuming and a brief “Call”. He doesn’t add what it is for, his father already knows, neither does he add any other qualifiers. Then, sprawled across the note in his orderly letters “Visiting Phil – Don’t contact me”. He just takes the paper where he knows it will be seen; under a bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the kitchen table and doesn’t hope for more

* * *

He stares at the envelope for a long time, picks it up and then lets it down again before the curiosity in him overpowers him and he finds himself opening it.

Like always his heart picks up speed when the letters form in front of him – and like always he recites calming methods in his head while reading simultaneously.

The admittance to the New York University as Mythology and Anthropology major is written in clear and delicate letters and a shuddering breath leaves him.


	2. the street lights probably illuminated the cheekbones of his stalkers in an ethereal shine but he didn't see it because he was too busy running away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which magic made him do it and a lot more dialogue than normally advisable for newly-traumatized teens happens.  
> spoiler: she's gay as fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i've been editing and rewriting this chapter like crazy - well, slightly more crazy than normal - the last week, and my writing just didn't want to get in line. also, in the process of finding a writing style and i was worried about it seeming too different and then i had anxiety about feeling like i was catfishing y'all with the first chapter, but also, this chapter is very dialogue heavy which normally isn't my style but what really is? but i hope you enjoy or or at least what it alludes to, because i'm really excited for writing what comes after!!! i'm going to spend the next hour trying to answer your comments now with something vaguely resembling human speak (because i've been spending the last hour reading them, and i certainly didn't feel human at all, more like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland).
> 
> have fun reading and thanks so absolutely much for all your previous comments and kudos - which i've been gathering in a neat little column in my brain titled "things that make me smile like an idiot" and also "oH GOD; People perceived me"
> 
> tw warnings in the end notes!

It’s a learned instinct, Stiles knows, the need to voice out his thoughts whenever they get too chaotic or confusing, _loud_ in his head - when he is alone and there is nobody to find him off-putting or weird. It clears them, forces him to concentrate on something other than the whirling swirl of emotions in him he isn’t keen on understanding most of times, centers him when everything seems to spin out of control. 

There is the quiet murmuring of his voice as he mechanically marches through the room, listing everything he needs under his breath, grabbing things off shelves, pulling boxes from under his bed, picking clothes and discarding some again. He walks through contingencies and then - contingencies for those, safeguards for his plans, alternatives, reflects on them again and then plans out more in case the results of those plans don’t work out. 

When he is finished packing his body moves without conscious thinking to his bookshelf, pulling out a small, worn-looking red book. He squeezes his eyes shut for a split second, allows his exhausted and battered body to slide down to the floor with his eyes holding the door of his room in sight - before opening it up to the first page. 

His heart immediately lurches in his chest and slender fingers delicately peel a somehow worn paper from the page, eyes following the number on it. 

Stiles remembers the stern-looking man who had crouched down to meet him on eye-level, who had looked at him with a gentle, understanding gaze as he had gripped his shoulder and said his name – the one only his mother had called him until now. A rough hand gripping his small one, pressing the paper into it with a stern face, with a _serious_ expression and an _order_ to call him “whenever and however he needs”, and then gathering him in a hug as he gently soothed him through his sobs, even as they had grown stronger with the litany of polish endearments his uncle had never stopped murmuring. 

And – he could call him, ask to visit at the New York Apartment he knows his mother’s brother has there, like he wrote his father he would do. He could. Now. Now, with all the sharp edges of his mind scraping violently against each other - frayed ends holding him upright in a make-shift bandage – his monstrosity all but screaming for all to see? 

_How long_ until Stiles would mar the soft memory of comfort with one of - hurt and anger and disappointment and shame and pain and disgust and _rejection?_

He knows better, he thinks as he comes to stand on his own legs again. 

Instead he slips the book – paper and all – into his backpack without another gaze and presses another number in his phone, his heart lurching for entirely different reasons now. 

* * *

Nothing in this world comes free. 

* * *

Martin Davis starts working for a night café at the same time Mieczyslaw Stilinski starts studying for his double major in Mythology and Anthropology while working at the library of his campus. 

His apartment has seen better days and he is half-convinced his land lady is some sort of woodland witch, and it takes exactly two weeks for shit to go down. 

It goes like this: 

He wakes up well-rested. 

And – at this point of the day he should have known something was up, because one Stiles Stilinski simply does _not_ wake up _in any way or form_ , feeling _remotely_ ready for the day ahead of him, not since a chaos spirit decided to use his body as comfortable residence. 

And – at this point he should have known something was differenttoo. 

He feels energized. 

But here is the thing: The first thing he does upon waking up - divesting himself from his clothes, _folding_ them, and taking his time pulling out an oversized shirt - is _cooking_ breakfast, still clad in his boxers and said shirt that completely covers his knees. He catches himself slightly nodding along to a badly written pop song, and then proceeds to take a long, warm shower that lasts for more than twenty minutes without being reminded that his only reason for doing so before had been to wash blood off, picks out his favorite red hoodie (hesitating between the chili and carmine red one) and puts on his old jeans. 

His brain feels, for lack of better words; fresh, like someone decided to take their time doing spring cleaning and leaving behind everything orderly and gleaming. 

Sounds of traffic and remote advertisements are played in the background of the city when he steps out, and they seem almost endurable in their intensity today. 

The morning lecture he normally abhors and skips more often than not leaves a pleasantly accomplished feeling in his chest after he attends. Even though he never made any particular overtures for friendship and hasn’t changed in that regard either, he finds himself with enough energy to nod at his seat neighbor and asks to borrow a pen instead of resorting to typing on his phone like the last time he forgot his pencase. 

He starts his shift at the library with the considering frown of his co-worker on his skin and ends it with a relieved sigh and two less essays to write. 

Maybe on another day he would have been occupied by the strangely wide-eyed looks some of the students on the campus give him when he walks by - in what would normally be an unnoticed and unseen way. Instead he is occupied with the clarity in his thoughts and the strange rush of euphoria that shoots through his body with each step in the sun. 

Walking to his work at the café happens without conscious input, a slight quirk of his mouth corners on his face and when he seats himself on the customary seat behind the counter and opens his last course book to spend his time, the door immediately opens. 

Still buried in the book, he looks up briefly to greet the customer and prepares to stand up and ask for the order - and finds himself staring at the new entrance instead. 

It is a woman, looking around surreptitiously to the small coffee shop littered with old and tattered books mixed with visibly newer ones further at the front. 

The paleness of her skin is even more accentuated by the sun shining in and her eyes seem to betray an age older than the twenty-something Stiles would normally have put her. When her gaze zeroes in on him, warning bells instantly go off in his mind and it takes all of him to not immediately jump up. 

Beacon Hills left him with the fortunate – or unfortunate, he hasn’t yet decided - ability to identify possible supernatural beings in a matter of seconds. It is not the first time a supernatural person visits the shop, and it certainly won’t be the last, but the intense gaze fixed on him with a focus that seems predatory makes him tense up in apprehension. 

Slightly confused he watches her narrow her eyes at him – then nod to herself in satisfaction as if a particularly interesting suspicion of hers had been established and verified in the same breath after the grand act of confirmation that was gazing in a stranger’s eyes. 

She walks to him, the sound of her heels reverberating in the almost empty café and he stands up, hoping his face shows the genial smile he is going for. 

“Can I help you with something?” 

The woman steps closer to him and then – s _ees_ him, takes in the dark smudges under his eyes and the unhealthy pallor of his skin, the way his skin looks stretched around him, like it can’t fully contain him - immediately gazing at him with something inscrutable. 

“Thank you, we”, and Stiles immediately looks around, seeing nobody accompanying the woman, “are just looking around.” Her eyes never waver from their point on his face as she says so. “But you could help by telling us what we can order here?” 

_Okay._

“We have a menu card”, he opens the shelf under the counter and pulls one out, putting it in her hands, “feel free to take a seat and have a look at it. If there are any questions you can ask for me.” 

She – or should it be They? - stares at him, as if considering something, before sitting down in the table closest to him – he tries not to think too much about whether this is a coincidence – and just -watches _._ And Stiles tries his best to smile as broadly as he can without looking like a lunatic, but around the 26th minute she is still sipping on the same glass of water she ordered and following his every move with her gaze. 

He would have written it off as very creepy crush-behavior, if not for the second, and then third, and then fifth, and then sixth customer doing the exact same, coming in with an immediate focus on him and then sneaking clandestine glances on him. They don’t seem to know each other, but he catches the woman giving the fifth one the stink-eye at the third hour, so he isn’t sure. 

And it’s not like Stiles can just come up and ask them to stop staring at him, risking the absolute possibility of looking like a paranoid maniac – and does he know – so he just does his job, and tries to ignore the growing mass of staring customers, that he is _pretty fucking_ sure are not _entirely_ human at all and tries not to scream. 

Maybe the staring wouldn’t have been noticeable for anybody else, but Stiles’ is used to operating on sixty percent paranoia since shit went down, well since forever, and spent so many years being the invisible kid in school that each stare directed at him feels like something boring through him. They aren’t that noticeable if one doesn’t know what to look for – side glances, eyes boring into him when he has his back turned, a little upwards tilt of a head to better have him in sight – but they are there. The knowledge of being in a public space is the only thing that keeps him from jumping out of his own skin. 

When his colleague walks into the café to start his own shift, he doesn’t waste any minute in excusing himself for his lunch break. 

There is one breathless, suspended moment – when he slides off the bathroom stall door, onto the cold floor and hugs his knees while counting his fingers that he’s sure he is still dreaming, that he is hallucinating the staring, that he is beginning to lose his mind again or maybe never really had it to begin with - and he is going to wake up screaming for reality to settle in at any moment – but then he still counts ten and even though his hand is shaking he can still read the text he put as his phone wallpaper – and it passes. He tucks his head into the space between his knees and breathes, ignores a voice in the back of his head reciting the ten different bacterial infections sitting beside him. 

* * *

He’s pretty sure that he doesn’t have like – a massive stain on the back of his shirt or a penis drawn on his face – and _who_ the fuck kept staring at his ass anyways – 

Also, it’s really hard to stay creeped out and vaguely scared in a kind of pissed way when each of the staring occupants of the café generously tip before leaning. Manageable, nonetheless, when he sees two of the men that hadn’t left since their arrival a few hours ago, closing on to him with an entirely-not-human focus, right after his manager tells him in a hushed whisper to get ready for his shift ending on the _other end_ of the room. 

They both look tall and intimidating in the way a lion who has been living in captivity may be dangerous, their features and equally brown hair hinting at a relation and face just one expression removed from unpleasant. 

One of them, clothed in a dark blue Henley and dark jeans in opposition to the leather jacket and blue jeans combo his accompaniment is sporting, leans over the table to murmur something, settling his face into gleeful anticipation in response to the muttered sentence answering him. 

He hears them ask for a bill from his co-worker as he walks out with their gazes at his heels. 

His hands steady on the ledge of his locker when he finishes depositing his work clothes and a shaky exhale leaves him. 

Instead of hurrying home he seats himself on the bench in front of his locker and pulls out his phone, proceeding to play some mindless game he downloaded last week after waking up at three in the night with nothing to do. 

Almost thirty minutes later he steps out of the emergency exit of the shop, hands curled into his pockets with his hood drawn up. There aren’t a lot of people out at this time of night and his heart sinks as he realizes that disappearing in the crowd most likely won’t be an option. 

A low curse leaves his mouth with a vehemence that startles the few passengers near him, and he quickly lengthens his strides. 

When he turns around again, he isn’t surprised to find the two men behind him, advancing quickly towards him. 

He decides against walking home after the sound of steps begin to follow him even three blocks down. He throws off the thought of getting into a random bus or train immediately after too, reconsidering due to the risk of being caught in an enclosed space with them if it doesn’t work out. It gives credence to how truly fucked up his life is that the thought of possible robbery or assault seems the least likely option here. 

Heart pumping in his chest – instincts he had worked on burying weeks ago stirring again – he winds through alleys, makes paths in public areas that are somehow populated even at night, stops to go into open food establishments and then leave through the second exit. He pulls his hoodie over his head while walking on an empty street, probably looking a little unhinged as he frees himself from the fabric in a matter of seconds and then throws it into a subway door about to close, not even stopping for a second before swiftly leaving, now clothed in a black shirt. A hand comes up to rub the gel he put on before work out of his hair with rough gestures. 

His cheeks are burning with mortification at the open display of paranoia that most likely looked like some drunks’ idiocies to the subway passengers, but the sound of the men talking behind him, in hearing distance, immediately locks this thought away. He had hoped to throw them off if they were following him with their sense of smell or by sight, but it seems to have failed. 

He doesn’t even need to turn around to know that he is still being followed now, the voices becoming clearer and clearer. Panic slowly ebbs into his thoughts and they spin aimlessly in his head. 

Steps behind him, getting faster and faster until he is sure that they have abandoned all pretense in favor of full pursuit. His heart pumps furiously in his chest as he goes into a sprint, knowing the moment he does so that it is hopeless – that whatever creature those men are, they are faster and stronger than him. 

He turns into an alley, breath coming rapid and fast, sees a trashcan and the horde of full plastic bags besides it and tries to shove the can to the side to somehow impede his followers – his hands, slick with sweat, glide off the heavy metal container and he curses himself as he stumbles away from the unsuccessful attempt and continues running. 

His legs _burn_ , threatening to give out under him as he accelerates again, somehow, his whole body shaking with the force of his exertion and the pain of his unregulated breathing hitting him in the side. He hears one of the men laugh behind him, and he has to force himself _from_ turning around and seeing it – the meager distance between them now, probably not more than the length of the alley he just got stuck on and - 

There is a quiet, silent moment in his mind, no thoughts about his current peril, nothing but the pure panic pumping through him almost as viciously as his blood and then something – _comes_ , buzzes to life with a vicious roar inside him, launches his body across the city in dark passage ways and streets devoid of any humans, every thought of the weakness in his body and the laughter behind him forgotten. 

He doesn’t think, doesn’t even consider what he is doing or what is happening, and before he can even start to, the knowledge of s _afety_ near pours into him with steadfast certainty as he comes to stand in front of a building, takes in its small size and then _opens_ the door, comes to stand in a dark room and _is_ safe. 

When a light is turned on and dim light floods the room, and he locks eyes with a tall, old woman standing in a pink bathrobe he wonders briefly if the sound of his heart _hammering_ through his chest is what alerted her. 

She is about to say something, moves her mouth to, but the door opens with a resounding bang as she does so and Stiles who has somehow gravitated towards the bathrobe woman whirls around to face the two men – who aren’t just men anymore. 

Both are snarling, eyes glowing yellow as their skin seems to ripple in a snakeskin pattern and fangs are leaving their mouth in sharp ends, dripping with liquid – 

Fear immediately yanks the existing logic and filter of his brain out of its sockets. 

“Is this drool?”, he makes a disgusted face at the substance now dripping on the ground, _“Oh my god, gross_.” 

The woman – and since when had she been standing in front of him anyways – turns around to stare at him incredulously for one second, and yeah, okay, he understands the implicit “are you a fucking idiot” in her gaze very well, thanks very much. 

But also, he is pretty sure that both had hair on their heads before – well, the shorter one, less than more, and once again he despairs at the lack of apparent eyebrow _and_ hair logic in the shifter’s transformations. 

Both men don’t spare him any more than a vicious gaze before turning to the woman in an obvious deferent show of respect. 

It is the taller one that addresses her. “Leave the spark to us, wise woman, and we will both part ways peacefully today.” 

_‘Wise Woman?’_

“There will be no bloodshed today, Skinwalkers.”, he sees the muscle in her back tense in preparation – for what exactly, “Leave the spark be - or there will be bloodshed against _you_.” 

Both parties stare at each other, something intangible in the air before they nod once, aggressive reluctance written all over their faces. 

Stiles watches in stunned awe as they turn their back and move to the door, and then rage suddenly storms both of their expressions, and the smaller one turns slightly back to sneer at him with a smile that is pure teeth. “You won’t be able to hide behind her forever, coward – and we will be here then.” 

And - the woman _growls_ and jerks her arms abruptly. Both men standing at the doorway instantly drop to the ground, an invisible force pressing them down. 

She walks – _prowls_ towards their prone figures and drops down in front of them, her hands smoothing out her bathrobe to hide her modesty as her hands descends on their heads in a deceptively gentle stroking motion, even as they seem to convulse under her touch. Her figure _looms_ over them, looks down on them, grey hair touching the ground with their length, something almost like surprise making its mark on her face as a considering smile appears on it. “I thought you wanted power?” Her hand suddenly _presses_ down on their heads, stilling them even as their bodies are lurching off the floor with the force of their convulsion in the shape of a half circle. No sound passes their lips as tears stream down their wide, wide eyes. “What’s the problem here? Am I – “, she leans forward, ‘concerned’, “not giving you enough? You want more? Are you getting greedy now that I have been this nice to you?” 

“No, no, we won’t have that.”, she leans forward, still constraining their heads, until her face is mere inches away from the one that talked to her first, “you want to steal _his_ power, but you can’t even handle a teensy-little-bit of mine? How was t _hat_ supposed to work?” Her voice goes steely, laden with a promise as she continues speaking. “You know what is going to happen now? You are going to leave my home _and_ the spark alone and not speak a word of this to _anybody_ or _anything._ You will not spill one word about what happened today. And if you don’t –“, a smile, “I will know the exact moment it happens, I will find your miserable, _cowardly_ hides and I will be more than happy to show you how exactly your body would have imploded with this boy’s powers as I hear you scream for the sweet release of death. Are we understood?” 

She smiles, her teeth on full display, all saccharine and demure like a predator might be, watching the ants on the ground move on the ground under him, and she could have been baring her fangs for all he knew. As he watched her stand back up again, in all her pink bathrobe glory and glare down on the men like they were nothing more than particularly annoying flies - Stiles thought that was what meeting a force of nature probably felt like. 

The men don’t look back as they stand up with trembling limbs and r _un_ out of the building. The door closes behind them with a resounding click that echoes like a gun shot in the room. He swallows audibly as she turns around, not sure whether out of fear or apprehension. Maybe both? 

She surprises him with a gentle smile on her face. “Tea?” 

And – yeah, okay, he can go with that. Tea. Sounds fucking amazing. Ambrosia, the liquid of the anxiety-laden anything everywhere anytime. Tea. Absolutely. 

She chuckles. “I’m glad you seem so enthusiastic about it; I hope I don’t disappoint then. I have been told though that I do make a good tea.” 

“ _Di - did you just read my mind?!_ ” Stiles – well, does some variation of sound that peddles between shrieking and squeaking that settles into a vaguely human speech and gives himself credit for his voice only stuttering once. 

Another chuckle. “No, you just said that out loud.” 

She doesn’t give him an opportunity to stutter out an apology with his face burning, only motions to a door behind him. 

He nods in answer to the unsaid question on her face, disentangling himself from his place pressed against a counter, sharp pain greeting him from where the edge had been digging in his hip. The counter seems to belong to a shop’s interior, and he takes in the shelves stocked full of ancient looking books for the first time. Before he can inspect the interior closer, she opens the door and he follows, closing the door on instinct behind him. 

* * *

The sound of voices arguing make him tense for a minute before he realizes the source of it – a TV is standing in the middle of what undoubtedly is the living room, a news report about the Avenger’s latest stunt. She gestures to the bright red couch in front of the report playing with a “Make yourself comfortable.” and then disappears in a closed side room for a second, the door closing behind her ominously. He hesitates for a moment, shrugs his shoulders as if somehow the sarcastic acceptance of the offer can cover up his now shaking limbs aching for a comfortable and warm surface and plops down stiffly into the couch. 

When she reappears, a jeans and shirt combo taking the place of the bathrobe, she has a fleece blanket in her hand, and drops it into his lap before stalking to the kitchen. She doesn’t offer any commentary. 

A few minutes later he finds himself sitting on a bright red couch with a blanket draped over his shoulders, the television in front of him and he watches the woman scurry around in the kitchen preparing tea. He is fascinated to note that she doesn’t pull out the customary tea bags, instead opting for containers full of dried herbs and measuring and mixing them with practiced movements, water boiling in the kettle besides her. 

Absentmindedly he tries to concentrate on a close-up of Thor that is showing but can’t find it in himself to concentrate on anything, just taking in the video of the heroes fighting a strange slime monster. 

The shivering of his body is replaced by warmth now, and the soft clattering and droning of the news reporters settle an unfamiliar feeling of safety in his body – it is that thought that makes him immediately jerk upwards, half-closed eyes wide open now. He drags his hands over his face, trying to will himself awake and alert again. A sudden wave of irritation at this unguarded moment in a stranger’s house makes him wrench the blanket to the side and sit up stiffly, even as it makes his vision swim for one second. 

There is sound in front of him and he looks up to see the woman settle on a chair opposite of him, blocking the view on the television (not that he noticed much of what was going on to begin with). She smiles briefly at him before pouring presumably the tea into the mugs standing on the table and he notes the graceful movements of her weathered fingers. 

“Sugar?”, she puts a glass container with sugar cubes inside in front of him. 

“Yes, please.” 

Her answering grin is wide as she watches him carefully deposit four cubes into the hot liquid. “Of course.” 

The woman’s eyes look ancient even on her obviously aged face, deep craters between her eyebrows. Her eyes are a startingly intense fading blue that reminds him of the same color that he painted his jeep with a few months before leaving – artificial and somehow looking out of place on his jeep, but not less beautiful for it. The long, grey strands of her hair are braided back, swinging behind her on the chair rest and slim fingers are cradling the mug now in her lap with obvious contentment at the smell of herbs drafting out of it. Barely visible patterns crawl up her hands around her fingers in a light brown color, the tattoo consisting of strangely aligned geometric shapes. 

Scott used to make fun of him for staring at people in weirdly intense ways sometimes – like he was thinking of “where you are going to start cutting into them first, you weirdo” and step on his feet when he got too caught up in it. He probably would have pulverized his toes by now, Stiles muses, almost on instinct, not surprised by the sharp pang in his chest at the thought of his former friend that follows that line of thought. 

Even after months of estrangement, ignored messages and only-coincidental meetings, more than one decade of friendship leave him wrong-footed and reeling on seemingly random occasions and he is almost glad when the painful thought transforms into a red face and embarrassment – again. 

With his burning face, guilt immediately follows closely after. He gulps. “…I’m so sorry.” Explaining his actions – not that something like “strange instinct taking over” is much of a justification - feels too much like not taking responsibility, so he doesn’t. “I’m like, absolutely fucking really sorry for this gross invasion of your privacy and even more for risking your safety like that. I will obviously cover any damage that was caused -” 

A hand grips his shoulder for a short moment, and he looks up, seeing a strangely grim light in the face of the stranger in front of him. “My name is Lilithian. I am assuming this will not be our first meeting so you can already get in the habit of calling me Lilith or Lily if you so wish.” 

Deep breath. Human societal standards, right. “My name is Martin Davis.”, he doesn’t hesitate in offering this name, already used to his new identity, “I would say it’s nice to meet you, but well I’m not sure if that’s reciprocated right now -” 

Then. “Martin, look at me.” He does. “What just happened out here was absolutely in no way your fault, you hear me young man?” Stiles shakes his head, trying to interject but she shushes him with a stern gaze. “You are obviously in possession of a newly awakened power and had the misfortune of meeting some bad people. The actions of others are not your fault.” 

“I still led them to your building, though.”, he says, ignoring the new question coming up in favor of displaying a disbelieving expression. 

She cocks her head. “On purpose?” 

He shakes his head slowly, trying to make sense of what happened with his eyebrows crunched together. “No – I don’t know how – I just – I was just suddenly standing – “ 

A sigh. “So, you didn’t know what you were doing. Or did you?” 

Right, _what was he doing_ _?_ “I don’t know to be honest – I was trying to get away and well…somehow ended up here?” 

“You don’t know where you were going or where you are right now?” The woman’s eyebrows raise slightly upon seeing his head shake. “...Were you aware of my existence before this encounter?” Another headshake. “You had contact with supernatural beings before.” Not a question this time, but he nods nonetheless. “You _do_ know that you are a Spark, right?”, there is a slight hint of exhaustion in her voice now and the strange impulse to apologize rears his head in him. 

“Yeah, but so is everyone.” 

Her body stills. She carefully deposits the still steaming mug on the table and looks at him with serious eyes. “What do you mean?” 

“Well - you know, the Spark thing where you move mountain ash in a circle, you just need to believe in it and do it.” 

“ _Are you –_ I – _who the flying fuck told you that?”_

He flinches back before he can even register it – watches her rear back in guilt with his face burning in shame. 

“I’m sorry, I let my temper get the best of me. You just went through a traumatic situation; I should have known better than to raise my voice like this.” 

He smiles at her for reassurance. “It’s fine.“ 

Although she doesn’t seem quite convinced, she lets go of the topic with casual ease and he almost sags in relief. 

“You mentioned you used mountain ash – I'm assuming to contain shifters – a few times? You formed a circle to do so by throwing the ash?” 

He doesn’t answer instantly, meets her eyes for a few seconds in quiet consideration before dropping his gaze and shrugging. “Yeah.” 

“Martin, who told you about your Spark?” She takes in his expression. “You don’t need to say their name, just how they were involved with you.” 

“He - my friend used to work with him – wait, that’s irrelevant – anyways, he – they – whatever, he turned out to be the old emissary of the former local pack.” 

“And he was the one who told you that everybody could do it?” 

“Yeah. No. I mean, he didn’t say a lot about this whole mountain ash thing to begin with – a friend of mine was in danger and he just told me to believe in myself and what I can do and then just use the mountain ash. But a few of the people around me used it too.” 

She grips the mug in front of her, drinks, puts it back. Inhales deeply, exhales out. 

“The act of throwing mountain ash – of moving it into a ceremonial circle to contain certain supernatural creatures isn’t something everyone can do. Not even close. The action itself – using mountain ash to form a line to protect yourself against certain dangers – while it may be arguable whether it is a real, organic magical act, is _some kind_ of magical act at the very least – _and_ only requires a _minimal_ measure of potential. Everyone has _that_ and as long as they are not said supernatural, they can do it with _extremely_ minimal effort too. Mountain ash is infused with the creator’s magic, and that is by far enough to allow most people to use it, but it couldn’t have been enough by far to allow for you to what basically amounts to _telekinetically_ _move_ it into a shape, not to even speak about the amount of training that kind of containment normally should have taken. What you can do – what _you_ did by _literally_ throwing some ash in the air and forming it into a circle without physical touch, with your will alone – isn't something everyone can do.” She closes her eyes for a second. “-As a magic user, he should have recognized it for what it was, and also taken measures to help you learn deliberate control after knowing you were capable of doing such an act of magic without training.” 

“What just happened here – this exact moment could have been prevented if he had given you the means to understand what is happening and what you are. The fact that he didn’t- “, her hands drags across her face. “For all he knows you could have killed yourself in some sort of magical accident or at least grievously injured _before_ your awakening even lured in any kind of possible enemy or endangered you, for gods’ sake.” 

“- This emissary, I’m assuming he was a druid?” 

“Yeah, he was.” 

“Was he the only magic user you had contact with?” 

A shudder runs through him. “There were others – two other emissaries.” 

“I see. And they didn’t tell you anything either?” 

“We weren’t really on speaking terms. Or any kind of terms, really.” A pause. “What does that all have to do with what just happened? -” 

Questions are burning on his tongue, making his mind swirl. “The snake dudes – you called them Skinwalkers, what does that mean? And – they called you something too, Wise Woman or something? You are a magic user, right? What kind? How did you know what I was? And what does me being a spark mean?” 

She gazes at him for a moment to make sure he is finished and then shifts in her seat to reach for the table, mug now again cradled in her hands. “You are aware of the existence of shifters?” 

“You mean, like werewolves or kanimas?” 

“Exactly like that. Obviously, there is a lot more to it, but all you need to know right now is that a lot of different sorts of shifters exist – co-exist peacefully in fact. Skinwalkers – “, her voice drips with barely concealed disdain, “are shifters that used dark rituals to gain another form, who discarded their own nature in order to reach for a vile perversion of power.” 

“And the vileness is due to the way this power is acquired?” 

She nods. “- Magic always requires balance, no matter the price. In this case it is the blood sacrifice of the shifter they want to take the form on.” 

He stews over it a bit. “Not to be rude, but from my experiences the shifter community doesn’t really have a problem with the whole blood part of anything. So why isn’t every shifter at the other’s throat and trying to get a second or third or fourth form then?” 

A rueful smile graces the wom – Lilith’s face. “That is unfortunately true. Well, the ritual itself may be easier done for some than it should be, but it is often what comes after that keeps so many shifters from ever trying their hand.” She leans forward, and he absentmindedly notes the smell of herbs drifting from her. “You see, the bodies of shifters never were created to carry the magic of _more_ than one shift. And to – so _forcefully_ and interwoven with ancient dark magic – shove another form into it, causes the natures, no matter how similar, of the shifts to fight against each other. In fact, some may argue that a similarity of natures may cause even more conflict but there is obviously no concrete proof of that. Most Skinwalkers never go further than a second form, but even that is enough to possibly lead their body to either instant or prolonged death or drive them to insanity in the worst one.” 

Insane shapeshifters. Right. Wonderful. 

Suddenly the image of a dozen Peter-clones running around in the city with the same creepy comments and the slick smile while wearing that horrendous V-cut shirt crops up in his head and he settles for hysterically giggling instead of the running-away-screaming variant that seems entirely too enticing right now. 

“Martin – everything okay?” 

“Oh yeah, sorry, I guess it’s the adrenaline getting to me, don’t mind me. So – Skinwalkers, very bad, no good guys that are either insane or about to spontaneously combust due to the amount of magic in their body? How was I involved in this?” 

Lilith nods hesitantly, eyeing him like he is about two seconds away from going ins – oh okay, fair. She may have a point. 

“Well – you are a magic user, and even more a spark, which makes your power particularly volatile and powerful – powerful enough to suppress the shifter’s side-effects in their body by extraction of your magic. In theory that is. There are some records of it succeeding, but they seem to be more of the exception than the rule. I am guessing those men were already teetering on the edge of desperation and seeing you out like this just drove in the last nail. 

As to why I am called the Wise One - it is simply a name bestowed on me by the magic community for my age and experience, a slight political position of sorts.” 

She glances at him, weighing her following words carefully. 

“Wait here a moment -”, she waves her hand and a bowl filled with strange looking biscuits comes out floating from where the kitchen is located, “and do make use of the time to get some sugar into your body before you completely collapse. The tea isn’t poisoned either.”

 _“...a slight political position of sorts.”_

The implications of an already existing power structure of sorts for supernatural beings – it isn’t something he hasn’t taken in consideration once or twice already. But the existence of a political system - 

Stiles shifts down, leaning his weight on his elbows now balancing on his knees and plasters his hands over his face because he clearly deserves this indulgence here and right now. 

His gaze drags to the clock resting over the frame of the door leading outside and he drags in a deep breath when he realizes that almost three hours have passed by since he got off work.

* * *

The strange biscuits turn out to be a weird mix of chocolate and strawberry filled cookies, and if his chewing turns a little frantic after taking the first bite, nobody is here to judge. He is strangely surprised to find the mug still radiating heat when he grasps his hands around it and he cautiously takes a gulp that turns determined the moment the earthly sweet taste of the warm liquid touches his tongue. 

It’s good, invigorating even, and a strange warmth spreads in his stomach at the same time the tremors in his limbs start to wane off. 

He doesn’t have time to feel self-conscious of the now empty platter of food before it floats off again and an USB-Stick is dropped in front of him. 

“All the information on magic user – sparks too, even though probably not as in depth as you would need – is in there. No need to give it back, it was a cheap one to begin with and all the information on there is copied.” 

Stiles looks up to her hesitantly and then watches the sleek, metal design of the stick with wariness. 

He thinks for a moment about it – breaking the thin balance they have been threading together, two complete strangers with nothing more than a name to them (and one of them a fake one to begin with, and who is to say she gave him her real one either?). About asking why she is helping where there is no obligation, when the moment she saw him she could have sent him out - or hell, even after the men left - instead of inviting him in and offering gentle patience and offers of tea and food. 

Nothing in this world comes free. 

He asks. 

“What is the price?” 

His head raises just in time to see the nonchalant smile on the woman’s face twist briefly. 

Behind her he notices the TV is turned off – he isn’t sure when she did it. The thought somehow unsettles him in the stillness of the room and he hurries to find another distraction while the awkwardness stretches quietly. There is a window on the left side of the room, only one side of the brown curtains drawn around it, the other flapping open and showing the passage way where he distantly remembers running from – to. Two figures are illuminated by the street lights and the woman on the right is laughing as the other besides her shoves at her arm. 

“I am no merchant, Martin.”, he whirls his face around to Lilith again, watching her lean her face to him intently. 

“You don’t have to be.” He winces at the childish stubbornness he realizes peeking through his voice. 

“Are you aware where the origin of the name spark comes from?” 

“No - but what does that have to do with this?” 

“It is important for your understanding – so, do you wish to listen to it?” 

He nods. 

“A magic user normally inherits magic. It doesn’t matter in what form – whether they are born with it, get it upon the death of a relative, harness it through rituals or wield an artifact that enables them to it – but in one way or another, they _do._ The magic in them already exists in whatever form possible and their body is also able to support it. There are exceptions to the rule of course, one of them being a spark. Sparks are human first before they become magic user – they possess inherent magic potential and after their first use of magic, when they have proven their will to be strong enough, they are formally magic users, sparks and the power in them begins to actually become more than a mere potential. Your body is then straining to accept the sudden influx at power you have at your disposal now, something it was not made to accept to begin with. 

The awakening – is a sort of hallmark of sorts, when a spark’s body has finally grown enough with the help of magic to accept its use without you being grievously harmed. Most people call an awakened spark Flame,“ she smiles, “I think I don’t have to explain why.” 

“There is no genetical component in this, no family members with magic or similar, no covens or pacts of community, and no elders with them to guide them through their magic. A spark’s body wasn’t born with it, nor is it enabled to carry it through genetic means or is carried by an artifact – 

That’s why the first magically experienced person they meet after their first use of magic – of which a druid more than qualifies to be – is called upon to be their mentor, to prevent accidents for both them and others, and if they are not able to - support them in whatever way necessary or refer them to other magic users if possible. We take duty very seriously as magic community – you could say it is one of the only things that is really adhered to. I am a former council member and still act as an advisor of some sort for it after my retirement, and therefore it is even more important for me to see a young man with such power safe and protected, even more when there is such an obvious case of possible willful neglect happening by one of us. I may be not the first person you met, but I hope to be the first one to help you. Do you understand?” 

“I think so – yes. Council?” He doesn't really, but somehow, he knows that's more of a problem on his side rather than hers, so he lets it be.

“That’s a topic better left for another day, young man.” She stands up, clapping her hands together as she does so. “Now that we have this cleared up – how do you feel about a permanent magic seal?” 

Stiles squints up to her, slightly off-put by the change in topic. “A magic seal? For what?” 

“Your body is currently using your frankly astonishing amounts of excessive magic in you to power through your _very_ human, and _very_ logical physical and mental limits to make you operate as a healthy body would. A healthy body – one you are very, very far away from. Which will probably lead to some kind of painful death on your part as all warning signs of your body are ignored - in about one to two weeks. It also has the side-effect of making you radiate magic for every supernatural person in New York like a beacon – which could make the positively optimistic prognosis of two weeks shorten dramatically.” Then she continues, as if she didn’t just – say what she said, and oh god, what is his life even. “The magic seal will create storage for your power to section off into until you learn to control it. It also has the handy function of extra magic being stored directly on your body should you find yourself depleted or in need of it later on.” 

Stiles closes his eyes, for a moment. Nods.

* * *

Somehow leaving the building one hour later with a magical tattoo stretching over his stomach seems the least of his worries right now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: panic attack, slight mention of depression, violence and tortur-y scene
> 
> also i got really confused when i wrote "off-put" while editing because fifteen-minutes-later-me was convinced that my brain just memorized put off the wrong way around, but apparently they are both a thing which is very comforting as whole for humanity and our future. So like, there is always a put off for our off-put which is amazing and they are both anagrams of each other??? Have an amazing day and please feel free to drop your thoughts about this and more in the comments.
> 
> oh wait, clarification: i never really watched season 5 of teenwolf (because we all know shit went down after that, and not the good kind) so i wasn't aware that Skin Walkers were a thing there, aka keep that in mind, aka they are not = canon!


	3. penis envy, but like, mental health envy, and criminal life for dummies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets old and new friends. Also, maybe becomes a good, obedient lackey to his new boss at his possible crime-adjacent work place and is forced to train his ability to rapidly name random penis synonyms, due to reasons. the plot thicc-ens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a lot of fun writing this chapter, but me having fun is normally not a sign of good things happening, so please tell me in the comments whether you enjoyed it too (or why you didn't!). confusing? plot hole-y? opinions on the oc's? 
> 
> THANKS FOR THE KUDOS; BOOKMARKS; AND THE ABSOLUTELY SWEET COMMENTS!!!!!! im normally too tired to respond when I get the notification but I will do so now!!! and !!!! :))
> 
> trigger warnings are at the end notes (with instructions on what sections to skip for most of them - i wasn't sure whether to do it for the panic attack one too?), pls stay safe and happy and healthy and take care of yourself.
> 
> also, explicit language and a lot of phallic symbolisation XD
> 
> have non-destructive fun, bye : )

It takes his battered laptop a few minutes to load up. Stiles uses the time to pull a notebook out of his backpack, arranging his pens by color in front of him and then watches the screen flicker to life with the patience of a weathered soldier. 

There are about two dozen scanned books in the folder, and about a dozen more minutes later his eyes begin to ache with the strain of looking at the strangely cursive script most of the scanned content seems to consist of. 

He stops in the middle of the second book, looks at the time and opens his phone to make several alarms – for work, university and necessary showering and eating sessions. If he cuts down on eating in the weekend, excluding the time he needs for his work shifts, he could probably finish all the books before Monday – just in time to start studying for his exams again. He nods to himself as he continues filtering the scanned books in different folders. 

\- 

There is a surprising (or unsurprising? He isn’t sure) small amount of information about Sparks – not to even speak about Flames. A report of encountering a girl with immense magical power that seemed to be born into a non-magical family, and not able to harness her power at all despite the writer’s many attempts – only to visit her again a few years later and find her being mentored by the leader of a local coven, performing extremely powerful magic to help her family tend to their farm with ease – manipulating the force of earth itself to command the crops to grow faster, but faltering at seemingly random magical feats like lighting a candle. 

Other short mentions of meeting Flames – scattered across the many journals and chronicles, which Stiles sorts into a time line, spending the day sorting the mentions out and researching the local history at that time. There is not nearly enough data to draw a conclusion but he finds himself fascinated by the correlation between wars, famine or general civil unease and the appearing of Flames. There is a little less fascination about the correlation it has with him. 

The reports and writings seem to contradict themselves in most cases – a text written by a sorcerer claiming the power of a Flame to be drawn from the magic in the air around them, while a druid talks about the magic being powered by the force of the will alone and corresponding in strength, another talking about the first feat of magic influencing the kind of power that is able to be harnessed, but then reports of someone not being able to replicate said first feat despite its magical ease cropping up in another report by a wandering witch. 

One thing everyone seems to agree on. Stiles without his seal would basically be catnip to the entire supernatural community without his magical seal locking his aura in, the kind that most want to eat up, in a slightly lethal and completely painful meaning. 

Stiles groans.

* * *

Lilith looks at him in contemplation. It has been a few weeks since their first meeting, more than a month, and he has only started working towards practicing actual magic at their last two bi-weekly sessions, watching her perform it and writing notes and reading books on the theory of magical harnessing (which to sum up what _it_ sums up, sums up that there is nothing to sum up at all about theory and he better get to work summing up his own sum up of magic because summing up is a delicate process of summing up with all sum of magic). 

She had been adamant on pouring as much information as possible in his brain about the magical communities and the different kinds of rituals and magics before they started doing anything r _emotely_ practical. 

Stiles finds himself actually vaguely grateful for that, agreeing to abstain from practicing it himself after a thought to the first time he had attempted a magical ritual without knowing _all_ of its repercussions. Of course, this compliance is only temporary, as Stiles knows better than anyone how much curiosity eats at him. 

He also finds himself actually grateful that while incantations exist – in both verbal _and_ non-verbal form by performing movements with the body – there isn’t any need for him to do so as his magic acts on his imagination and emotion. 

Which made waking up with flames eating at the posterior of his bed slightly more logical in its happening – and the subsequent introduction of tattoos stretching his long fingers comforting, even more so with the woman’s assurances that she could spell it invisible so his work at the café wouldn’t be influenced by it. They were supposed to anchor his magic to his body when his mind wandered in his sleep (read: had a shitty, fucking nightmare and turned it into reality through the glittering, pink power of magic and unicorns) and the visual of druidic symbols stretching his pale skin in okra brown was just a little positive side-effect. 

Lilith had stopped asking him about what happened the moment he had looked her into the eyes, and whatever she had seen there had made her start subtly weaving traps of weirdly warm blankets, calming teas and subtle force-feedings in their sessions, with books on meditation and magic-adjacent anchoring rituals for the mind finding themselves in the stock of material she made him read every week. 

Her worried gaze finds his in startling intensity. “Are you sure you want to do this?” 

The teenager holds her gaze. “I am sure.” He hesitates, biting at his lower lip before continuing. “If something goes wrong - we,” - ‘ _you’_ goes unsaid - _“,_ can stop the spell anytime, right?” 

“Of course.” 

He takes a deep breath, raises his left palm in front of him, not giving himself any more time to consider what he is doing. 

“Concentrate on feeling the magic in you – no need to...” 

She trails off as both of them watch a flame come to life over his upturned palm. 

It’s terrifyingly easy. 

No warning signs of magic rushing through his body like she told him, or the need to break through any barriers. Only the want for fire and warmth, and a feeling like something clicking in place – sliding _ba_ ck into place – and then it _is_. 

He almost laughs with the rush of elation at his success and raises his other hand to hover over the flame, feeling the warmth on his skin. Not even the – very brief - thought of the heat burning seems to make any difference to him as he cradles the flame like you would a small animal, pushes it gently into the air where it seems to almost playfully bounce around. 

A smile breaks free on his stunned countenance as he watches the fire transform into a tiny humanoid form, a face consisting of two black holes on its face that seem entirely too cute for this description. 

The flame-form _bounces_ towards him with tiny legs, leaving little flickers of fire in the air that hover for a second before disappearing. And then it lays down on his still open palm, directly touching him with nothing more but pleasing warmth as it nuzzles against his skin before curling into itself. 

He watches the being, because it _is_ , taking in something that might be its own mimicry of hair flicker on the tiny head in the form of a light-yellow flame in an inverted triangle shape. 

Stiles wonders if hospitals accept patients with heart attacks based on the lethality of adorable flame spirits. 

“Taking it slow, _my butter-frosted_ _arse_.” 

The teenager’s attention falls on the woman in front of him, hands on her face in barely hidden amusement. Despite that her relief about the success seems almost palpable. 

“Martin, did you not understand why I didn’t want you to practice magic without my supervision?” 

The teenager carefully shifts his hand so he can rest it on his elbows – trying not to jostle the little spirit in his cradled hands that nuzzles further in his palm at the movement. 

“I did, which is why I didn’t do anything.” Stiles can’t even find it in himself to be indignant with the accusation, too busy trying to secure a bigger range of movement for the flame with his hands by spreading them a little more. 

Lilith stares at the boy in front of her blankly for a second, before throwing her arms up in the air. 

“I don’t even know if that makes it better or worse.” She stands up as she speaks, turning to the stack of books resting on the kitchen table that functions as a modified book shelf for her. 

With a triumphant exclamation she pulls out a book from the pile, toppling a dozen others in the process that she levitates back to the pile with a flick of her finger. 

“Congratulations are in order –”, she sets the book down in front of him with a resounding clang of the glass table, “for both you and your little companion here.” 

A chuckle escapes her mouth as she watches him glare at her for the perceived uneasy movement of the spirit in his hands at her loud and rough movement. 

“I am assuming you know what just happened?” 

Stiles nods, eyeing her for signs of further movement. He is pretty sure the spirit just started dozing off in his hands. 

“An elemental companion?” 

Connections with elementals were supposed to be a sacred bond between a magical user and the creature, forged in an intricate ritual in which they prove themselves worthy of the bond – and if lucky, get chosen because of it. The spirit gave his companion complete control of its element and an innate connection to its corresponding magics and in exchange feed on their magic and was guided by them to grow up into their adult form. 

“It seems you will have to do a bit more of reading.” 

* * *

* * *

The substance in her hand had smelled like smoke and herbs. It had been a gooey black, almost slime like. 

And she had grinned at his slightly disgusted reaction and he had scowled perfunctorily back. Stiles had asked if she was going to use needles and if she was even licensed to do it. She had laughed and told him there would be no needles and it would be a lot different than he knew the normal process to be. She had laughed again after he told her about fainting once he would see needles. 

She had told him to lay down on his back while pointing to the sofa and he had stared confused. 

And then she had asked him to take his shirt off and his face had gone still and pale. 

He had asked why, and she had told him that the magical seal would need a lot of space because she would otherwise risk making a mistake in the markings or the seal itself. Then he had asked if his abdomen would give her enough space and his voice had sounded distant even to him, as did her weighted pause and the following affirmation. 

His hands had trembled, the way a newborn fawn might, and he had dug his fingernails into the skin of his palm to settle his shaking. His heart had balanced on the middle of a swing and jumped side to side with the weight of his indecision. 

Then he had insisted on sitting with his back to the wall, had dragged a chair from where he had spotted it in the kitchen before – _without asking_ , a part of him had screamed, expecting fists and blood and another panicking at the same kind of disregard of consent in his own place being done for him – but it had been just that, a _part,_ nothing in comparison to the pure panic raging through his mind like a hurricane. Then he had sat down and he had looked into her concerned, wide eyes and because he would _not_ succumb to his own fears _and_ ruin the chance of getting protection, had dragged the hem of shirt up his body. The fabric had been held in place at his back by his position against the wall, only the skin of his stomach revealed and he had not been able to hide the force of his shaking hands. 

The woman had sucked in one deep inhale, had gone pale as well, and rage had appeared on her face before she had seen his face, _daring_ her to ask with a wild, empty look on his face. 

She hadn’t asked after. 

If the silent, unspoken accord between hadn’t been settled the moment he introduced himself as Martin Davis, it had been then. 

_Don’t ask._

His head is bowed over the kitchen table that has been cleared of a small space to allow him to spread his own materials. 

His hands are moving furiously, shifting through a folder with one hand and marking down quick notes with the other, the sound of Stiles himself in the background – a magical spell allowing him to transform the contents of books into his own voice reading it out loud. He had been ecstatic to discover it. For obvious reasons. 

So, when a voice suddenly drones out, he finds himself almost flinging out of the chair with the force of his surprise, the magical recitation in the background immediately stopping. 

Lilith cocks her right eyebrow at him, silently conveying her disbelief at his disregard of her persona when they had been having a heated discussion about spell experimentation not even five minutes ago. “I said, did they die?” 

Stiles’ right hand – still scribbling on the page of the notebook without the teen even looking at it, stops moving. 

“What?” 

The witch doesn’t roll her eyes, instead staring right at him in stony silence. “Your parents. Guardians. Whatever.” 

Of course, he knows that she knows. He may be able to play up the role of a 21-year-old with ease, but he wouldn’t fool himself into thinking he could deceive a woman known as “Wise One” with his acting skills alone. 

He considers his options. Goes through their past interactions, the respect she had shown towards his privacy, her personality. 

Finally, “You can call me Stiles.” 

Lilith lets out a weak chuckle in startled realization. The following muttered sentence seems to slip out almost involuntarily. “ _Of course_ , that wasn’t your real name.” 

The teenager nods, not bothering to add that this one isn’t really either, and then with a swipe of his hand over the book that helps him visualize his spell, his own voice plays the contents of a “Theory of Spell Creation” and his hands resume their frantic movements. 

* * *

He waits after that. For things to change, questions to come. 

They don’t. He isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or dread the inescapable moment when they _do_ come. 

When he realizes what happens it's too late. 

He is drinking one of her suspiciously flavorful teas – she told him of her experimenting with magical taste enhancing and showed him in detail how to create it after he had started rattling off dozens of poisonous herbs in mock-seriousness. With a possible emphasis on serious. But vigilance only pays off in consistency and Stiles very much thought “Mad-Eye" Moody damn well has a point. 

Nimue, his recently summoned water spirit who had been dubbed that name after the many names of the Lady of the Lake much to the creature’s delight and the exasperation of Lilith who had gone on a rant about the sacred meaning of magical creatures' names – is flitting around in the air with Hephaestus, the flame spirit who had taken on the role of an equally mischievous older sibling. Both seem content with shooting tiny balls of water and flame at tiny targets constructed in the air and doing the mental equivalent of laughing in his head when Stiles inevitably flicks a shield at whatever furniture is in danger after a missed shot. 

Lilith is telling him a story about her time as circus magician, sharing an anecdote about a flustered audience member who spectacularly failed to prove the tricks behind her show. 

A small smile graces the lips of the exhausted teen leaning against the counter as he listens. 

Stiles is halfway through his own regaling of the time he convinced the class teacher to take a rat as communal pet and then “accidentally” set it loose on a particularly horrid English teacher - “...and she loved to cuddle – like, she would climb on your shoulders and nuzzle against your cheek and would jump on your body when she got excited for petting time – she was adorable – but the teacher obviously didn’t know that -” He stops, his arms poised in mid-air in his avid demonstration of said jumping. Opens his mouth, closes it again – just stands there and gapes. 

Lilith is smiling at him in fond amusement, munching on one of her oh-so delicious cookies, waiting impatiently for him to continue his story. The teenager looks at the clock on the wall to confirm his suspicions. It’s almost one a.m. and their teaching session ended two hours ago. 

What is he still doing here? 

He glares at the woman clearly at fault here, who is looking more and more confused, until a concerned frown mars her face. 

“Everything okay, Stiles?” 

Of-fucking course. It had started with that damned moment when he had told her his name, hadn’t it? 

The boy opens his mouth to – what exactly? 

Accuse her of making him open up – in a dastardly plot for world domination? 

Forcing him to share all those little harmless stories, which she didn’t? 

“Argughvangdh”, he warbles out, pointing his finger accusingly at her like the rational and smart human being he is. “I can’t believe you did this!” 

The confusion flattens out in something more questioning, concern still shining in her eyes. “Did what?” 

He waves his arms, agitated and long limbs flailing in an uncoordinated dance of strangely portrayed non-understanding, pointing at the plate of cookies in front of him and the tea, his university homework laying on the table from before (she had offered to explain him the actual truth about the Yeti myth if he did his essay on it at her apartment) and then just brings both arms down like an enthusiastic conductor finishing a crescendo. 

“Manipulate me into - _this_!” 

He is aware that he is being slightly ridiculous but the sentence is out of his mouth before he can regret it. 

Understanding lights up her face again and something that dubiously enough looks like amusement and sadness at once flits through her eyes. He immediately averts his gaze with his face burning, still waiting for an answer. 

Distantly he notices Hephaestus and Nimue settle down on his shoulders, leaning their tiny bodies against his neck. 

The unspoken question hangs in the air like a physical weight and he slumps his shoulder in preparation for the answer. 

Because both of them are too smart for this – because he knows Lilith well enough by now to know that she _never_ does something without reason and calculation in both measures – because – she _wanted_ him to stay with her and talk – and - kindness is never given without pain in equal measure, without a bargain that is made and won by either side. Never both. 

And there is _nothing_ to gain from him beside a loyalty _already_ given the moment she took him as student. 

A relaxed body always meant less pain when his father beat him, and he is sure that there is some intertextuality going on in a strange psychosomatic way for mental blows as well. 

“I’m aware that there are a lot of things weighing on your mind, Stiles, but I do not intend to become one of those.” The woman’s hard look makes the teenager look up in confusion. “I am fully capable of making my own decisions about the sort of people I want to have around me and if your presence would have been in any way unpleasant or actively unproductive, I would have found you another guide to help you with your magical studies. That I have not - should indicate to you that I have accepted you as my student – and with that your well-being and health also becomes my responsibility. I don’t intend to be a fading presence in your life, or one ignoring your person in favor of concentrating on your power. Your magical progress is important to be, but so is seeing you grow as person and getting to know you better. I happen to like you very much as both dear student and person Stiles.” 

Stiles nods dumbly once, or maybe thrice, he isn’t quite sure. “Uh - wow. Okay, ehm -” 

He is interrupted by her soft voice. “Can I hug you?” 

“Uh - wow – that's even more – wait a minute.” 

And she actually does – until the teenager succeeds in trying to get his disordered thoughts back together, a maelstrom of emotions he is scared of examining running through his frame that he untangles and sets aside for later. 

She doesn’t comment when he nods slightly, just steps into his space, waiting for a few seconds for him to re-consider it before gently grabbing him in her embrace when he doesn’t. He isn’t small by any means, but her tall proportions seem to dwarf him as he is lightly pressed against the hard lines of her body. 

“Now that we have this cleared up – I think you have some damage to repair?” 

He follows Lilith’s gaze to the completely drenched carpet in the living room. 

“Nimue!” 

\- 

Later he lays in his bed, staring at the ceiling, when it suddenly hits him that she never answered his accusation or denied it. 

She only grins him the next time they meet and he mentions it. 

* * *

_“You.”_

Stiles looks up from where he has been in the process of dislodging his shoes without the bothersome interference of something quite as mundane as hands. His right foot is almost entirely outside of his black sport shoes, and he somehow awkwardly puts the exposed appendage clothed in brown socks with the shoe still attached to the ground to spin slightly around – facing Lilith. 

The woman is clothed into a white sundress, its short sleeves showing off a set of geometric shapes winding their way down her arms and showing off similar patterns on her leg. 

“You did it again, didn’t you?” 

The boy resumes his action of pulling the shoes off without hand-side interference, and divests himself of both his shoes in quick succession after figuring the motions for the first one out, speaking all the while through his successful attempt. 

“Oh, hello Lily, it’s so nice to see you too”, he stresses the ‘too’ with a raised eyebrow towards the woman crossing her arms in front of him, “– I didn’t know you had those tattoos on your legs by the way too – are they magical like the ones on your arms? I love your dress by the way, it really shows your figure off. How are you doing? Did the experiment with the calming spell work out?” 

A part amused; part exasperated glance answers his greeting. 

“Don’t you dare change the topic, young man.” 

The teenager rolls his eyes so far back into his head that the woman is worried about them falling out for a moment. “We cancelled the last session because of my exam and you know how restless I get if I don’t get to do something. It was only one spell, I _swear._ Flame manipulation, the one we already did together. I even asked Hephy to help me if it doesn’t work out.” 

Lilith looks entirely unimpressed with him as she struts to the door at the back of her shop, opening it to the living space at the back. “That’s what you said the last time too, you complete wanker.” 

Stiles grins, as he does each time her British roots rear their beautiful, insulting head and catches her muttering incensed as she waits for him to come to a stand in front of her. 

She smiles at him while asking. “Is it okay if I hug you?” 

He has never refused in the several dozens of their meetings until now, but his chest still swells with gratitude at her question, as it has all the times before. 

Stiles nods briefly and is promptly pulled into her arms for a few seconds. Her embrace immediately stops when she notices him tensing and like always, she steps to the back to grip him gently by the shoulders and watch him carefully for a quick second before letting her arms fall. 

The boy stays at the doorway as she motions to walk in, and only moves after a “Come in, Stiles” is thrown over her shoulder, his form relaxing slightly and following her. 

“How did you even know?” 

“Like I could even overlook it – you have this satisfied Cheshire eye look and all going on.” She sighs. “So, which part of your body did you manage?” 

The Flame grins unabashedly at her, ignoring her wide eyes at his full grin. “ _Every inch._ I went full human torch.” 

“Bloody hell.” 

She sends him a side-long glance. “...And you were okay?” 

Stiles grin turns into a smaller smile, knowing she is remembering the incident with his nightmares turning into reality. It had been pretty clear that fire had been the main protagonist of it. 

“Hephy’s fire is different. I can’t really explain it, it just is.” He shrugs. 

It isn’t. But the fire isn’t his fear here. 

A nod, and the topic is closed. 

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**_Eleve_ ** **_-_ **

The cold wind of the night is blowing pleasantly around him as he watches the stars from his laying position in the damp grass. 

“You really should stop doing that.” 

Whiskey-brown eyes seem to almost flash in the night as they fixate on the upper branch of an enormous tree standing before him. 

There is no answer for a few minutes and he snorts. 

“You do know how creepy this is?” 

“Not that I don’t get the urge to go bonkers and climb trees at night and then spend an hour staring at a stranger, but really?” 

A pause. 

“Okay, I get the first bit, but I’m a bit stuck on the last one. Care to get down and elaborate on your reason for that?” 

“Also, do you think I will somehow stop noticing you if you don’t answer?” 

“I really would rather not leave my favorite spot but if -” 

“You looked first.” A quiet voice, almost going unheard if not for the way it seemed to demand attention with each gravelly syllable seemingly being forced out. The sound is rough with disuse, laced with a tone of childishness that almost makes the teenager snicker. 

Stiles attention is caught. He rises from his laying position to better peer into the tree. “Excuse me?” 

“You looked first.” 

“Yeah, _duh_ , dude, there was some stranger sitting in a tree at fuck o’clock, right beside this wonderfully comfortable patch of grass – of course I would look. What does _me_ looking have to do with you staring at me for the rest of the _hour_? I will have you know -” 

Then the boy stops. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I am seriously arguing about this.” He cranes his neck towards the faintly illuminated silhouette, squinting his eyes. “Are you going to kill me now?” 

_Or at least try to._

“ _What -_ no!” The man seems almost horrified with the suggestion. “It was just instinct; I didn’t even notice I was watching you until you pointed it out.” 

He doesn’t know whether to be reassured or even more discomfited by the answer. Maybe he would have gotten up and left any other day (hell, who is he trying to kid here, he would have stayed regardless - damn his curiosity) but the unpleasant taste of his nightmare is slowly starting to peel off with each word exchanged – so he continues. 

“Instinct?”, he drills into the obvious wording. 

“Sniper instinct, always keep track of your surroundings.” Something almost embarrassed creeps into the deep voice at this admission. 

“How _charming_. How _reassuring_. How _comforting_ to hear. Suddenly I feel so _safe_ sitting directly under you while you talk about your instincts that directly link with shooting people. Thanks for the information. I can’t believe I’m going to die without having arranged for funeral -” He stops. Blinks, once, as he takes in the crouched figure of a man suddenly in front of him. 

Did that guy just jump down from the top of the tree? What the fuck. 

But also, _cool_ the fuck. 

With the practiced motion of a fragile human being (he chooses to ignore the seventy different ways to maim with his arsenal of spells suddenly popping up in his mind) he takes in the figure of the man now slowly standing up. 

His first thought: This man could probably crush him with his little finger. 

The second: Never let your post-panic attack mind make conversations again. 

The third: Slowly start to back away while holding eye-contact, because that’s what you do when you encounter predators, right? 

And that’s where he stops thinking, because he is now staring directly in the man’s eyes and he _sees_ it. 

The ghosts. 

So many of them. 

So _much_ of it. 

A haunted man. 

And then he _looks_ . Finds a determined clench of the jaw. Comfortable clothing – blue ripped jeans, and a black shirt clearly showing a myriad of scars littering his tanned skin without any ounce of hiding, maybe even _showing_ them off. A relaxed stance, wrinkles on his eyes where the motions of laughing and smiling etched themselves so beautifully in his skin. He seems young – 24, 25? - but _so_ old at the same time. And he _is_ weighted down, so _clearly_ absolutely laden with the gravity of it holding him – down – up, but _he is standing._

It feels like being punched in the throat, like breath knocked out of him for one short agonizing moment as he struggles to take in oxygen, like making his body move the way it should but clearly can _not._

He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand. 

How? 

_He wants to get it. He wants to understand._

_How?_

_“-_ you alright? I’m so sorry, I didn’t think –” 

“ _I’m fine._ ” The teenager hisses out the words venomously, immediately pulling his gaze from the ice-blue depths of the stranger, who looks taken aback by the sudden change in tone. The man steps back slightly from his position in front of him, assured of his state, and straightens to full height again, instead of the slightly crouched position he had assumed to calm the teen down. “I was just surprised.”, Stiles continues. He isn’t lying. 

He wants to get away. He wants to scream, and cry, and plead for something he isn’t sure he deserves, and he wants to understand what just happened, and he wants to sleep, _actually_ sleep, he wants to forget what he just _looked_ at and analyze it at the same time. He wants so much, and needs everything of it, and his hands are so, so cold and something hot is _boiling_ in his chest, melting whatever ghoul of ash and blood is left in the cavity of it. 

“I need to go now.” The boy shoves his hands almost violently in the pockets of his sweatshirt. 

Ignoring the – _hurt? -_ look playing out on the sharp planes of the face in front of him, he deliberately steadies his steps as he walks away – in the direction of his apartment. 

Leaving the figure behind him in the shadows. 

\- 

He doesn’t scream, or cry, or plead, or think, or sleep, or forget, or analyze, or want. He sits down on the dingy chair he got from the previous owners of his apartment, the one he put right in front of the even dingier table where he eats, and writes, and learns, and breathes, and reads and sits. 

He needs though, for a quick second - his magic almost summoning Hephaestus and Nimue with the force of the demand, before he wrangles it back again, a hand twitching in the direction of his phone laid out beside it, where the number of a silver-haired witch rests. 

His elbows rest on the wood. Long, pale fingers are connected in a tight grip before him, clenching in uneven intervals like the furious beating of a heart. 

* * *

_It doesn’t change anything._

* * *

The strange furious feeling for the man fades after a week, flushes into a red, splotchy shame that grips his thoughts. 

He ventures to the park again. 

No mysterious revelations hiding in it – the trees devoid of any life beside theirs. Stiles wonders if his actions drove the man from his obviously new-found sanctuary and the shame blossoms into guilt. 

* * *

His phone rings. 

_His_ phone rings. 

His _phone_ rings. 

His phone _rings._

He takes a deep breath, sits upright in his chair, is grateful for the respite of privacy and comfort his apartment will give him. 

Slow, deep breaths. 

Even heartbeat. 

And he answers. 

Steady, confident voice. 

* * *

The street lights beside him flicker. On. Off. Stiles sits on the damp grass of the park, right under _that_ tree, clenching a book in his hands, eyes unfocused where they slide off the page listlessly. 

His mind buzzes in short, painful flashes of thoughts and memories as he lets the bark of the tree dig into his spine. 

Somewhere at the back of his mind he registers his book falling to the ground, the heels of his palms digging into his eyes as he curls into himself. 

His magic is buzzing under his skin, the lights flickering faster around his still form. 

Black spots appear in his vision as he _pushes_ the thoughts, willing them to disappear with the force of the pressure on his eyes. 

Short, rapid breaths that leave his frame trembling with the vigor of it. 

He lets out a shuddering breath. 

* * *

Stiles holds a list of dislikes. Small ones. The sound of blenders, for example. It’s a horrible, discordant noise that makes him itch with the need to leave the room. The smell of lilies - trumpet lilies. His father used to buy him for his mother in the hospital in copious amounts and he hated them almost as much as the disinfectant smell causing him to perpetually scrunch his nose up. 

The sound of gravel under his feet, crunching _right fucking now_ , is one of those too. 

It’s an irrational one, he knows, and shouldn’t even enter his radar at this moment because there are other more pressing concerns. A lot more pressing. 

Regardless, he can’t contain the shudder of distaste as the sound _crunches_ out with each of his steps, until he finally arrives in front of the warehouse, the gravel under him making way for bare muddy ground that clings to his sneakers. 

It’s an old, barely held together thing, blue paint splintering from its walls. Gouges of earth are uprooted on seemingly random places and the sun reflects on the firmly shut small windows situated on the top of the building with a glaze that make Stiles briefly squeeze his eyes together. 

He straightens his shoulders, the way he always used to do before a Lacrosse game, before coming closer to the enormous door. His hand rises, five short rasps on the metal surface and he steps back. 

It opens with a distinct whirring sound, sliding up, and he is left to stare at the slowly appearing legs of the man on the other side with growing awkwardness as the process seems to stretch endlessly. His hands wobble a little indecisively on his side when the full figure of the man is revealed, blue overalls _shining_ with substances he chooses not to inspect any further, black, slicked back hair resting on an equally shiny forehead and dark eyes flitting at his figure through sturdy glasses. Does he shake the man’s hands? 

They stare at each other for a few (excruciating, painful, never-ending, mortally wounding) seconds and he slowly raises his left hand and decides that a wave - and a spontaneously aborted try at a smile - seems the safest option here. 

Apparently not though – the man turns away from him with a sneer. “Fucking weirdo.”, he mutters, waving his hands beside his head like the poor imitation of a floppy noodle. “Follow me, and not a word.” 

Stiles drives his hand – slightly broader and tanner than normal – through his now blond hair as he follows. 

Long, towering storage shelves appear immediately in his vision, everything obscured by the numerous empty rows of them. Dim light illuminates the hall. Two other people in front of them and about two others hidden somewhere inside the building, a quick scan with his magic supplies him, their life force weakly pulsing at his periphery. 

The Overall man expertly weaves through the labyrinth of shelves and he hurries to follow in his slightly shorter form – stumbling (more than usual) in his unaccustomed proportions. 

They come to a stop in an empty area – cleared of anything but one chair and a table. Two men – one sitting on the chair, dismantling a gun with expert ease – and another, standing upright, slightly behind the chair. He barely restrains his snicker at the cliché intimidating tactic – but easily so when his attention swerves to the two presences he sensed before, now moving so they are hidden behind him - situated across of each other in a triangle position. In definite shooting distance. Or the distance needed to tackle someone in a tight, choking hug. Well. 

The man sitting doesn’t look up at his entrance, instead making a show of continuing his activity. Overall guy leaves him to situate himself on the other side of the chair, nodding to the one on the left as he does so. 

A few minutes go by, and Stiles is immediately wrenched away from where he had been counting the rather sparse blonde hair on the supposed boss’ head (41) as said man looks up. Dark eyes survey him with intent, as if he had _just_ catalogued his existence in his ambit of thoughts. The man’s hand, calloused with obvious cause, reaches out almost absentmindedly to the now assembled gun, holding it in a deliberate loose grip on the table as if the action was nothing more than an arrière-pensée rather than a purposive message. 

His tone is rough, callous. “You are the guy Hale recommended?” 

A fearful and slightly cowed expression makes his way onto Stiles’ face, before it transforms into stubborn determination and a youthfully eager nod. 

“Experience?” 

“None, Sir.” 

The man – Dick, short for **DI** ssembling guns in front of his, present and possible future, lackeys instead of **C** ommunicating **K** indheartedly (Stiles likes to think he spent the few minutes waiting productively) - doesn’t seem particularly displeased by the answer. He turns to Bunny whispering something in German – the man beside Dick wearing almost cancerously growing front teeth – to which said prey animal immediately crouches slightly down, whispering furiously back, Penis cutting him off with an obvious order. 

He fixes his gaze on Stiles’ form, taking in the scruffy jeans, the worn shoes and obvious threadbare jacket. “Bernard, was it?” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

A smirk curls in the corner of the middle-aged face of Dick like a satiated cat. “Welcome to the team then, Bernard.” 

-

“Illusion spells?” Lilith cocks her head at him. “Didn’t we already talk about this?”, she breaks in a part-accusing, part-amused face, "I vividly remember running around with pink striped hair for a day.” 

Yeah, and he vividly remembers _using_ them on _himself_ a few times _too_ , illusioning eye rings away, changing his body mass here and there and possible complete full body illusions to get into a criminal organization. No big deal. What she doesn’t know won’t keep her up and all that jazz. 

“Oh, I remember that too, don’t worry –”, Stiles rolls his eyes at Nimue on his lap demanding back rubs, but obliges with a fond eye roll as the water spirit opens its black, round eyes wide and sends him the equivalent of kicked-puppy emotions through their link, “but we didn’t talk about permanent ones.” 

“Stiles, we talked about this, permanent magic is absolute bollocks. It only seems -” 

The teen cuts her off. “- that way because the relativity of time itself isn’t governed by magic and the transmutation of energy in another form allows the illusion of permanence, Law of Barmeloceus, the cost of a transformable action is directly preceded with the shifting of -” 

“-yeah, yeah, I get it Stiles, you still remember it, no need to recite the whole book now.” The witch watches him in fond exasperation. “If you know that, why did you ask?” 

“I figured it would be really handy to have a _kinda_ _“,_ he stresses the word with a look towards Lilith, “permanent illusion spell I could use? I could spell the magic theory books into normal law books or whatever, or hide ritualistic items when I go out with them. Just stuff like that. Illusions that are upheld passively for at least a few months.” 

Also, possibly, maybe, somehow, illusion the approximately 60 thousand dollars under his bed in something a little less innocuous than carton filled with bills. And pull off a drug stealing heist. Being a lackey dealing with illicit substances may have its upsides - said upsides being absolutely nothing besides the cold hard reality of cash, but it sure as hell isn’t easy on the nerves or whatever remaining ones he has. 

The woman raises her eyebrow at him as she smirks. “A few months, huh. That’s an awfully specific amount of time, dear.” 

Opting to ignore the jab, he continues. “...So?” 

She sighs. “Yes, it’s possible.” 

* * *

The café is disgustingly nice and cozy. Stiles sits down in an abominably comfortable leather mix of couch and chair and settles down to watch people scurry around in what will soon become the meeting place of him and Peter Hale. 

He tries not to tense up when the werewolf steps in the café - loosens his limbs and looks around in deliberate boredom while counting the number of people in the building and noting that Peter came alone. Good. 

He is wearing a black suit, the suit jacket slung over a forearm exposed by the assiduously folded up sleeves of his white dress shirt, looking out of place in the casual atmosphere of the coffee shop he had recommended himself. Like everything Peter Hale does, it’s a show of superiority and arrogance. 

The man’s face immediately transforms when he sees him – a full-toothed stretching of mouth corners that resembles a shark’s grin, eyes locking into his with an intent he isn’t keen on deciphering.

Stiles is sharply reminded of Malia’s face for a split moment – her hair pouring over his naked chest as she gazes up to him with the same predatory focus. He clenches his hands where he had pushed them in the pockets of his sweatshirt, digging crescents into the skin of his palm to center himself, not hard enough to draw blood, only to feel the pressure of skin against skin – but not fast enough. 

It widens almost imperceptibly – the grin on Peter’s face already bordering obscene now fully breaching that territory as the sound of a heartbeat rapidly speeding up meets his superior hearing. Then, a moment of giddy delight before only the satisfied glint of his eyes gives any indication of his changed mood. 

There is a willfully meticulous intent in his movement when he comes closer - slow enough to telegraph his next actions, slow enough for Stiles to make an audible noise of disgusted protest, but not fast enough for the boy to evade him as he seats himself right beside the teenager and throws his arms over thin shoulders. 

A rough hand rises, pulling the hood off the boy genially, and then fully enveloping the now exposed nape with the appendage, the tan skin contrasting vividly against the pale counterpart. He squeezes, once, sharp claws stroking over the delicate tendon of muscle for a moment, eliciting patterns of slight pain along it, before letting it rest there for a second, a human hand now stroking the skin available to him as it slowly, very slowly retreats. 

Hard body of the supernatural being already pressed to the boy’s side, he scoots impossibly closer as he leans towards a mole-covered earlobe, his hand gripping Stiles’ shoulder. 

“What a _pleasant_ surprise, Stiles, already waiting for me? How do I deserve this honor?”, a smirk bordering on indecent as the slight brush of his lips against the teen’s ears fills the werewolf’s sensitive senses with a rapid heartbeat accelerating once again, “Excited to see me?” 

A hand comes shooting out from the pockets of the hoodie, and cold metal presses against the thin material of Peter’s suit shirt, the knife hidden to outsiders' eyes under the long sleeves of Stiles’ clothing as the boy spits out, loathing and disgust in his voice. _“Move.”_

Peter’s palms come up, the werewolf laughing as he rolls his eyes and moves to the seat opposite now. “Touchy.” 

He wastes absolutely no time, more than ready to get this entire endeavor over with as he angles for his backpack leaning against his legs. The elder man’s eyes light up with an intense focus as the gift box is revealed – and the teen doesn’t complain as his preoccupation with it clearly keeps him from making any smart quips about the choice of disguise. 

“Two, like we agreed on.” Stiles captures the gaze of the werewolf for a brief moment to drive his point home. “Our business here is concluded, you fucking asshole. Favor for favor.” 

He keeps his hand on the box, waiting for the man to answer which he does with one of his shark grins. “Of course, Stiles, who do you take me for.” 

And with that the teenagers straightens, getting up with his backpack over his shoulders. He is standing in front of the table, back turned before a sudden impulse makes him turn around to the man now reaching for the box. “And before I forget –”, he pulls a twenty dollar bill out of his jean's pockets, depositing it on the table with dramatic flourish, “Some pocket money for you.” He smirks, and the motion comes surprisingly easy, the condescension of a gracious elder in his voice and eyes. “Buy yourself some sweets or something, won’t you, _Petey_?” 

He doesn’t wait for a reaction, stepping out of the café and his figure melting into the masses with ease. 

He still has something to do. 

A few streets later, and a magic scan revealing no followers, a blonde, short man makes his way to an office building. 

-

Tube steak of love – he hadn’t given Stiles a name yet, his fault – looks immensely bored, and he can’t help but agree with this evaluation of general emotional involvement needed here. Even his hair looks slightly wilted, hanging from his head in sad, little angles, and he also can’t help marvel at the devotion to keeping the theme. 

There is a general sense of admiration for cum gun’s constancy in portraying the monster-under-the-bed kind of scary that has manifested itself in Stiles after that one instance with the knife, to be honest. The dude sure gives his best, and who is he to begrudge him for his obvious adherence to the whole “I could kill you whenever and however.” show? But you can only watch someone being desperately ebullient on establishing themselves as superior presence for so long before it starts being a little amusing spectacle, after all. (Also, it makes him feel a little less bad about using Dick as springboard for various penis nicknames.)

 _Maybe_ Stiles would have also believed this current show, or felt nervous about his cover slipping, if the bug he had illusioned invisible on cum gun’s body hadn’t told him a few days ago that mysterious shadow leader numero one was _very_ pleased with the efficiency of the new operations. And yes, maybe Stiles had been - a _little_ more than recommended maybe, even - pleased by the admission of his impeccable skills as criminal, but if, there was nobody but Nimue and Hephaestus - who had both gained enough intelligence to know he was doing something their “Aunt Lily” would consider a bad thing – to judge him. 

For now, his face is a slight mix between nervous, apprehensive and fearful as he waits for a superior’s ominous silence to break. 

He decides to take initiative like the good lackey he is after approximately five minutes. 

“Have I done something wrong, Sir?”, he pauses after each word for one second too long and the annoyance in pork sword’s face as he waits for him to finish enunciating the sentence will never fail to make him stifle his laughter in his room later. 

A hand tightens on the gun, the weapon rising slightly as Dick turns it around as if for inspection, a debate clearly playing out on his face. 

“You will report to a new superior today, Bernard.” The gun is deposited to the table again, Bunny at the side sending him a scathing glare laced with the vicious hatred of an older employee being bested by a new colleague. “Our department has taken note of your skills and wishes to employ them to other uses.” A smirk, both warning and derision. “That is, if you want to?” 

It's times like this that make Stiles think his clearly too-long association with supernatural creatures screwed something in the danger-retreat part of his brain on wrong, because his muted amusement at the situation playing out seems in one way or another out of place. 

His answer is a mix of stuttering ascent and enthused thanks, and a minute later an obvious friend of Bunny shoves him roughly out of the warehouse. He introduces himself as Thomas and doesn’t speak a word from then on, opening the car door roughly as he mutters some rather unkind sounding words under his breath. 

Stiles is caught between the utter awkwardness of sitting at the front and being in more contact with the man or sitting at the back in a mimicry of a taxi service that probably won’t be pleasantly received by his work colleague. The problem is solved with the opening of the front seat – what seems to be hundreds of cans and take-out boxes threatening to fall out, one (empty) energy drink can immediately attacking his foot and then coming to a rest right beside it on the muddy ground. 

“Those assholes don’ even bother to clean up shit, I should have fuckin’ known.” Thomas shoves a few take-out boxes in his front seat to the side and then motions to the back of the four-seater car, where a small space is revealed to be free on the right. “Sit your ass down, dude.” 

The teenager nods, cursing his decision to illusion his body broader as he tries to fit into the small free space, pushing trash and various rather-not-inspected goods to the side so he can situate himself better. He scrunches his nose up at the smell, opting to endure it instead of communicating more with the annoyed man. 

They arrive at the building a little more than ten advanced levels of Candy Crush (40 minutes) later, and are led by a merrily smiling receptionist to the lift. 

“That’s where you are on your own now, just press number 6 – good luck.” Thomas doesn’t even look back, leaving the building like his mother had just sent him a text saying she was five minutes away from his bachelor apartment, and maybe she had, who knows. 

He sighs as he turns to the elevator, trying to will the slowly changing numbers displayed on a small screen over the elevator to go faster with the force of his glare. 

“Bad day?” 

Stiles faces the voice, finding a woman – looking to be in her 30s – standing behind him. Brown straight hair and an average face that seems to be at odds with the depths of her just as averagely brown eyes. He is immediately suspicious. Instead of answering directly to the question, he replies with a dry tone. “Every day can be a bad day if you try enough.” 

“That’s certainly true.” An amused smile appears on her face. The motion seems too practiced, too natural. 

A silence now, and Stiles has to resist the urge to squirm from the discomfort of it. He is relieved to find the lift opening in front of them now, side-stepping the few people leaving he shortly wonders whether one of them came from his future shady meeting place. The relief doesn’t last long when he enters the fairly large place in the escalator though – the woman obviously following in. 

He presses the number 6 on the buttons before he can think further of it, and comes to stand in the far-right corner of the lift. The moment he lifts his head to meet the suddenly sharp eyes of the woman he knows he fucked up. 

“I see.” The sentence seems to stretch. 

And Stiles _moves_ , evading the arm reaching out to him. 

But the arm _reaches_ , uncaring of reflexes and movement in the now oh-so small place of the elevator, and a harsh blow to his neck shoots him careening to the ground, stunned and unable to move as the tell-tale pinprick pain of a needle enters his skin. 

And then he knows no more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: slightly graphic description of anxiety and panic attacks, non-consensual touching (beginning from: "A rough hand rises…" and ending in "Peter's palms..."), ambigous phrasing that allusions to possible past non-con (beginning from: "Stiles is sharply reminded of Malia’s face" and ending in the same sentence with "...not fast enough"), explicit language abound
> 
> Stiles: I have everything under control, ha ha, don't worry.  
>  ** _camera panning to him scribbling down his co-workers favorite food at three in the night_**  
>  Narrator voice: Please worry.

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings for physical violence, everything that comes with the Nogitsune, child abuse and neglect, passive self-harm thoughts, ptsd symptoms and possible interpretable suicidal ideation
> 
> i hope you enjoyed!


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